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FOR 1952 






For 1932 

An Annual Barometer of the Sentiment 
of the American People 

Fourteenth Annual Edition 


Edited by 







Copyright 1933 


Davis' Anthology of Newspaper Verse has been the 
avocation of Dr. Frank P. Davis for the past fourteen 
years. He collected newspaper verse for years, studying, 
classifying and tabulating it. In 1919 he published his 
first issue of the Anthology of Newspaper Verse. The 
fascination of the work grew with the years, and he con- 
tinued to edit the annual volumes. He was interested to 
note the reaction of the people to current events as shown 
by newspaper poetry proving that newspaper verse was 
"A Barometer of Public Sentiment." 

Death came to Dr. Davis on the morning of August 
first following a brief illness of bronchial pneumonia. 
This fourteenth annual volume was incomplete. I am 
completing it for him and in his memory. 

There have been many changes in American life during 
the past fourteen years, and newspaper poetry has been 
quick to record these changes. 

In 1931 the depression led in number of poems, and 
we again find the greatest number of poems to be on the 
depression. It was shown in many lights; some showed 
its darkest side, some sought the silver lining. Many of 
these lines radiate a delicate sweetness of spirit, and 
numerous depression poems showed a marvelous, sustain- 
ing faith. 

From the very first of its occurrence until its tragic 
end, the kidnapping of Charles Augustus Lindbergh, Jr., 
brought forth many poems. 

The Washington bicentennial was the subject for many 
fine poems on Washington and the activities connected 
with the observance and celebration of bicentennial year. 

Press poets also remembered the anniversaries of Long- 
fellow, Scott, and Goethe. 

This being presidential campaign year the result was 
a great many poems to the candidates of the two major 
parties and also before the conventions, we had poems 
for "favorite sons" as well. 

I want to thank those authors, editors and columnists 
who have assisted and encouraged me in the preparation 
of this work. 



March Winds 45 

Old Trees 65 

The Captive ". 103 

The Whistling Boy 121 

Villanelle 83 

Whene'er at Night I Gaze 25 

When Washington Tarried Here 5 


The hut, in Riverside Park, Cumberland, Md., used by Colonel 
Washington as headquarters in 1755, was purchased in 1922 by 
the late Honorable James Walter Thomas, restored and pre- 
sented to the city. As a bicentennial feature a memorial 
tablet was erected. 

There tarried here a man of kingly bearing, 

Courageous heart where high ideals held place; 

A soldier, patriot and leader wearing 
The scars of conflict written on his face. 

His shelter was this hut of crude formation, 
Naught but the barest comforts did it hold. 

His errand was momentous to the nation, 
Dramatic history was being told. 

The years take toll but lessen not the glory 
Of Washington; he lives from age to age. 

This cabin stands and pilgrims hear the story 
Of how it played a part on history's page. 

The Cumberland (Md.) News. Sara Roberta Getty. 


When life's last word is written, 

And life's last song is sung, 
When all the earth is ringing 

With brave deeds man has done, 
When heroes wear their laurels 

From pulsing pole to pole, 
Will science proving knowledge 

Give peace to every soul? 

The quiet and the trusting 

Who go on willing feet, 
And keep faith fires burning 

Though doubt stalks through the street; 
Will science and brave knowledge 

Gleaned from the heights above, 
Be more to them than serving? 

Be more than faith and love? 

The quiet one of fields and loam, 

Who walk life way's alone, 
Whose scepter is the kindly deed, 

Whose humble throne is home, 
Will these have greater knowledge 

Of faith and things above 
When science tears the veil apart 

And proves God's heaven is love ? 

The Birmingham (Ala.) Age-Herald. Mary Pollard Tynes. 


I hold a dream of chicory 
With flowers of heaven-born hue, 

It hurled its color in my face, 
Of vivid, burning blue. 

It grew within a vacant lot, 

I passed by every day, 
And its blue glory folded me 

As I went on my way. 

The Bostom (Mass.) Herald. 

Katharine Washburn Harding. 
"Top o the Morning," August, 1932. 


My morning-glories grow apace, 
Compact of vagary, of grace, 
Light beckoning, deeply rooted. 
Beware him who loves no such weeds 
As these celestial bell-chimes; blue, 
And pied, magenta, (egg-shell too, 
To flatter eye and flutter touch;) 
Slim-built like Chinese parasols 
To drip the sun, the sun to catch ; 
Tendrils fleetly spiralling 
From rooting warm and moist and old 
In ever, never-sleeping mould 
Whose aeon habit broods the seeds 
Of sturdy kitchen patch or weeds, 
Idle, sunny, swaying weeds, 
He's dourly suited. 

The Boston (Mass.) Herald. Dorothy Randolph Byard. 
April 7, 1932. 


The day was cold and the mud was deep 

And he'd had to miss his dinner. 
For many nights he had lost his sleep ; 

He was looking worn and thinner. 

He grumbled now as he deftly dressed 
The wound that his lance had made : 

"No man with sense and good judgment blessed 
Had a country doctor stayed. 

"He'd never live in a place like this 

And go all hours and weather. 
He'd specialize and he then would miss 

These hardships altogether." 

The phone rang then and he answered "yes," 

Forgotten his hard position, 
The long, rough road and his weariness. 

He was still the true physician. 

The Bracken County Nezvs. Ruth Winslow Gordon. 
Sept. 29, 1932. 


They who have called New England gray and cold 
Have not accounted for its lilac boughs 
Sweet guardians of the chambers of the house 

Where one is born and mated and grown old 

In one square room, that knows the sunset gold, 
Their over-casual reckoning allows 
For no least item of the glad carouse 

Of lavish May when all the leaves unfold. 

Austerity of the New England zone 

Only enhances its belated May; 
Not in the tropic island is there shown 
Such radiance ; or heard such roundelay 
As when the land, but now chilled to the bone, 

Leaps from its lethargy of yesterday. 

The Boston (Mass.) Herald. Isabel Fiske Conant. 

April, 1932. 


(In a Cemetery) 

Once more these drooping, faded flags 

On slender grass-grown mounds remain; 
Their colors vanished like the dead 

Long numbered with the valiant slain. 
I wonder if their hearts so true, 

And eyes that fearless flashed so bright, 
Are conscious of the things we do 

To keep a nation's impulse right. 
Not in the passion of the strife, 

They came where sons and fathers sleep ; 
They sought with thoughts of peace and life 

To honor those whose days we keep. 
These sunken mounds but mutely tell 

Of noble ones who paid the price; 
With loyal hate they fought and fell, 

Feeling the cost of sacrifice. 
But could they now beside us here, 

Within God's Acre breathe again, 
No deadly onslaught would they fear 

God's peace has calmed the hearts of men. 

The Buffalo (N. Y.) Courier-Express. MUlard S. Burns. 
November n, 1932. 


Northerly winds, puffing, blowing, 

Riding like mad o'er hill and dale, 
Shrieking with Joy, bounding gladly, 

Driving snow in face of the gale, 
Lakes are frozen, earth is hardened, 

Silvery streams and rivers congeal, 
Trees are stripped of gorgeous splendor, 

Trimmed by the winds, as sharp as steel. 

Fairy fingers during darkness 

Sprinkle crystals upon the trees, 
Snappy winds from Northland blowing 

Breathe upon moisture; then one sees 
Wondrous shapes and glorious pictures 

Shining, blending marvelously, 
Like unto the elfins' grotto 

Builded under forest or sea. 

Northland's rigid clime produces 

Vigorous iron for man's blood, 
Carries on her winds the balsam 

From the pinelands ; sends forth a flood 
Full of health, of strength, of gladness 

On her fierce gales which loudly blow, 
Bearing the thongs of the Ice King, 

Heaping the landscape high with snow. 

Curling smoke from happy firesides 

Wreathe and float in the ambient air ; 
Boys and girls aflame with ardor 

Over the glistening icy glare 
Glide with joy; on shining runners 

Dash a-down hills with ecstacy; 
Cold, which ties up lakes and rivers, 

Fills their young hearts with mirth and glee. 

The Boston (Mass.) Post. Edwin Gordon Lawrence. 
March 6, 1932. 


I will not hang my grief on high, 
A common taunt for passersby ; 
I'll hold it rather as a light 
To guide our human steps aright. 

The Cincinnati (Ohio) Times-Star. Calvin Dill Wilson. 


The empty arms of his mother will ache 
For the feel of his velvet cheek, 
The loving heart of his father will break 
For no more will his red lips speak. 
And over the hills with angels to roam 
Where no sin of the world may mar, 
He waits in the halls of heavenly home 
Where all of God's little ones are. 

The Catholic Tribune. Anthony F. Klinkner. 

May 14, 1932. 


"Everywhere the earth is twisted, 

Nothing straight and nothing right ; 
Things are going to the bow-wows, 

All is in a sorry plight ! 
Dreary days are everlasting, 

Clouds have blotted out the sun; 
Things you don't need are abundant, 

Things you do need, there ain't none ! 
Growing crops are dry and thirsty, 

Needing rain without delay; 
But when you begin your haying, 

How it pours most every day ! 
Politics is one mad scramble, 

For the bacon and the plums ; 
And the public marches daily, 

To Perdition beating drums ! 
We are broken all together, 

Everybody poor and sick ; 
Folks are fickle, you can't please 'em, 

Do your level best they kick ! 
Beezness, he is gone forever ! 

Vhen dey tell me vhere he go, 
I no follow heem Fd ruther 

Loaf a while dan suffer so! 
Even homes have ceased to function, 

All the love there is today 
Is inside the dictionary 

Bound too close to get away!" 


When you hear these sons of sorrow, 

Dread Disciples of Despair, 
How you ache to knock their blocks off, 

Gray stuff seems so scanty there! 
If they had a mite of matter 

Long denominated "gray," 
I am sure their pessimism 

Would take wings and fly away, 
Who can see God's lovely sunsets, 

Flowers and brooks and trees and skies, 
Beauty everywhere abundant, 

And breathe an atmosphere of lies ? 
Who can meet the common people, 

Good and honest everywhere, 
True and kind as humans can be, 

And give way to dark despair? 
Courage, Brother ! Prop your chin up ! 

Open wide your eyes and ears ; 
God is good, your neighbors kindly, 

Let the truth allay your fears! 
Get away from the miasma 

Of the marshes made by men 
Into God's wide-open spaces 

And your sun will shine again ! 

The Boston (Mass.) Transcript. Rev. William Wood, 
July 16, 


This is enchantment's realm to me. I know 
Where rabbit-burrows lined with down conceal 
Bright-eyed inhabitants; where woodmice steal 
Through agitated grass to avoid their foe, 
The velvet, steel-shod owl. Upon the hill, 
Where amber broomsedge billows in the wind 
Beneath dark boughs of gum and maple, thinned 
Of every leaf, a partridge calls, is still, 
And then a whirr of wings. In diffidence, 
Two squirrels peer around a hickory 
Then dart away and leave the wood to me. 
Now prone upon the molding leaves, I sense 
The stir of dormant life; or more divine, 
The heart of winter pulsing under mine. 

The Birmingham (Ala.) Post. Louise Crenshaw Ray. 
Feb. 20, 1932. 



God bless the trees! the friendly trees 

That keep our hearthstones warm; 
That yield us shade in summertime 

And house us from the storm! 

Tho' man has maimed and slaughtered them 

Since ever time began, 
They have remained do still remain 

The staunchest friends of man. 

God bless the trees ! the kindly trees, 

Green brothers of the wood, 
Whose truest mission on the earth 

Is that of doing good! 

In answer to our direct need, 

And to our fondest prayers, 
There comes to us no spirit shape 

More beautiful than theirs! 

From massive trunk and swaying bough 

From leaf and bark and stem, 
There comes a magic an appeal 

That draws my heart to them! 

'Tis joy in summer days to see 

Their vistas green unfold; 
'Tis joy to see their iron ranks 

Resist the snow and cold! 

God bless the trees the patient trees 

That men so often spurn! 
Yet give us freely of their all 

And ask for no return. 

The Brattleboro (Vt.) Reformer Arthur Goodenougfy 


Awake, ye Spirit of the Night! 

Show me a golden dawn! 
Lead on to yon Eternal Light, 

The hope I live upon ! 
I falter as the path I take; 
O Spirit of the Night, awake ! 

The Columbus (Ohio) Citizen. Isola M. Ohaver. 

July $>> jpj^. 



Into a garden He went to pray 
Knowing the end of His short earth-day. 

And the birds there sensed His Majesty 
And winged their way more silently. 

The little wild creatures paused when near 
Nor trespassed on the Presence there. 

While even the insects sensed some way 
The Man of Sorrows there to pray. 

As flowers and grasses under His feet 
Sent up a perfume strange yet sweet. 

Meanwhile man feasted outside the gate 
Without one thought of His love or fate. 

And even His chosen soundly slept 

As their Lord in the garden prayed and wept. 

The Buffalo (N. Y.) Courier-Express. Phoebe A. Naylor. 
'March 20, 1932. 


The hush of this spring night was strangely deep; 

It was not strange that I so early fell 
Into the blackened pit the world calls sleep 

To dream a dream I cannot help but tell ; 
Oh, will you listen? I have seen the horde 

Of dear departed saints and I, while there, 
Spoke with and saw and touched our own dear Lord 

And knelt before his angel guarded chair. 

Oh, could I only bring for earthly eyes 

The glory of it all ; could I recount 
The beauty of His Heaven in the skies 

Where the stars travel and the new suns mount! 
And now too long my shred of life will seem; 

Let me discard it and resume that dream. 

The Catholic Tribune. Jay G. Sigmund. 

May 2, 1932. 



My neighbors hang their blankets out, 
And put the winter dust to rout 

With brush and mop, with work and din. 
Their houses shine, without, within. 

For shame that I, a housewife, too, 
Should sit and dream the way I do. 

And greet again each little face 

Of pansies with their pensive grace, 

And think of lilacs yet to come, 
The snowy bough of pear and plum. 

The slow-unfolding leaf of tree 
Is always miracle to me. 

I cannot work with mop or broom 
When earth is coming into bloom, 

But needs must watch the shining glory 
As spring retells her ancient story. 

The Catholic Transcript. Vera Keevers Smith. 

May 19, 1932. 


The mad old world goes whirling on through space, 

Seeking the chartless avenues of sky; 
The wrinkled signs of age adorn her face 

The hordes of creatures who were born to die 
Nuzzle her flesh ; the sound of belching guns 

Ripple the gray clouds and the ocean's brine 
But there is sustenance for all Earth's sons 

And there is still a morning sun to shine. 

Oh, be not hopeless, grubber in the land! 

Be not cast down, you men who crowd the mart; 
This strange old planet needs your brain and hand, 

Needs the strong sinew and the singing heart; 
Blame not your Mother World, she does her best 

For greedy millions, tugging at her breast. 

The Cedar Rapids (Iowa) Gazette. Jay G. Sigmund. 
March i, 1932. 



You stand in the doorway that opens my mind. 

You sit by the grate that illumines my heart. 
Too much looking on you has dazzled me blind 

And I fail in the courage to make you depart. 

I can never forget the bright tang of your voice 
That opened the windows of heart and of soul. 

For only your laughter can make me rejoice 
And only your loving can render me whole. 

The Charleston (S. C.) Post. Lucia Trent. 

"Choir Practice," June 10, 1932. 


What did you dream of, little house, 
when you lived in the wood by 
the river, 

gathering under your roof 
music of robins 
and secrets of birch-leaves 
and prayers of the pilgrim water? 

You could not know that one day 
men were to come for you 
and draw you slowly, slowly up 
the hill, 

over the bridge, to the rock where 
you stand now. 

There was no seer to tell you 
that you were to find me there, 
wandering homeless, 
and keep me with you through 
the years 

Until the day when men shall come 
for me, 
and carry me slowly, slowly away. 

Will you grieve then, little house, 
will you grieve or will you smile, 
and dream 
of thrushes at dawn, 
and a breeze waking the birches 
over the river? 

The Charleston (S. C.) Post. Charles Bollard. 

"Choir Practice" April 8, 1932. 



(The Cross on which Our Lord suffered was of pine, accord- 
ing to an expert who made a microscopic examination of. por- 
tions of the relics. Probably, then, a stone pine, which grows 
in the Mediterranean regions.) 

Unhappy tree, who once were used so ill, 
Destiny to fulfill, 

Of your green needles, sharp as His every thorn, 

Hewed and hacked and splintered, shaped to fit 
That small but terrible pit, 

Driven into your heart, where man impales 

The Son of Man, the Son of God, yes, God 
Himself, and then the sod 

Under your feet, where drop to the last drop bled, 

Unhappy tree ! . . . Strange, yet I now know why 
That day you did not die. 

Task was not spent with that investiture. 

Thorn-sharp needles of your tears still fall 
To give His Blood a pall, 

Around your feet is shadowed by His Cross. 

Yet these are tears of gratitude you wear, 
Grateful that you had share, 

In our redemption, till He come again. 

And, ever-green, the color of hope, you raise 
Your head, your arms always, 

Pointing not to our dread, to His bright demesne. 

Resinous tree, to our frail bodies health, 
You, with slow gracious stealth, 

Health to the soul, our peace recovering. 

The Charleston (S. C.) Evening Post. Benjamin Muster. 
"Choir Practice," March 2, 1932. 



The dusk comes to the Land of Little Hills 

Gently, and with a soft and wooing grace. 

It is a gentle country, and its face 

Is calm. Deliberately the shadow fills 

The small cupped valleys and spreads along the brown 

Coiled river, and across the undulent bright 

Young fields . . . Softly the tender young June night 

Folds its hushed wings above the homely town. 

And there is fragrance in the shadow where 
Low voices of a girl and boy are blent 
In words of parting and songs sad and old 
And all June nights this memory shall hold 
As long as time shall keep the faint warm scent 
Of crushed small roses twined in June-dusk hair. 

The Charleston (S. C.) Post. Clifford Gessler. 

"Choir Practice" June 10, 


"Dordi! Dovelo adoi!" ... in her tongue 
Are echoes remaining when bells have rung, 
Are words in a patteran, soft and quaint . . . 
(Miduvel knows that I\ wasn't a saint!) 
She is only a child 

In a ragged gown 
That she probably stole 
From Midbury Town 
When a Hawthorn hedge and an April wind 
Were a restlessness for all of her kind, 
And the scent of the earth 

In a sudden rain 
Was a far voice calling . . . 

A sharpening pain 

That would not be stilled till a gypsy man 
Had his wife and childer within the tan . . . 
She is only a chi 

With a sudden flair 
For scarleted tall heels 
And binding her hair 
Away from its tangle of thunder-cloud, 
Close to a head that is willful and proud . . . 
And swinging her hips in her ragged clothes 
While she walks the tips of her tiny toes. 

"Dordil Dovelo adoi! . . . There! You see!" 
(That was how another had come to me . . . ) 
"You will have many loves!" holding my palm; 
(While my mind raced back. . .but my face was calm) . . . 
"Many ones, many ones 

Have shed foolish tears, 
But none of them held you 

Through all these years 

Since that line came there . . ." her childish chatter, 
Taught her by bebe . . . what did it matter ? 
How could she know that a 

Girl a bit older, 
With the same dark beauty, 

(I could have told her) 
Loved me the space of a Devonshire Spring, 
And left me the birds unable to sing . . . 
And now here was her ghost 

With the same strange flair 
For tall heels of scarlet 
And binding her hair 
Away from its tangle of thunder-cloud 
Close to a head that is stubborn and proud 
As her mother's had been, and just as fine. 
(Thank God she is lovely . . . this child of mine!) 

The Chicago (III.) Tribune. Don Farran. 

"A Line d Type or Two!' 


Black moths of sable magic night clouds fall 
On doorways green and red, and low and deep, 
Wherein one hears the pattered noiseless creep 

Of life that lives and breathes, yet hears no call 

Of outside world ; knows naught beyond that wall 
Of silence, where the world is fast asleep, 
In darkest mystery, stories there will keep 

Forever, all their secrets past recall. 

Strange odors permeating all the air, 
While incense slowly curls up to the sky, 
Where turquoise blue is set in fleecy clouds 

That gently move from place to place ; and where 
There once was noise of ceaseless life, no cry 
Now breaks the night, entwined in blackest shrouds. 

The Charleston (S. C.) Post. James Neill Northe. 

tf Choir Practice." 



When Grandma Pierce awoke to find the sun 

In golden patterns on her coverlet, 

She thought she heard a sound like "Great Amen*' 

Float up the stairs from the melodeon. 

"Imagination probably," she thought, 

"Or dream too close to waking to be real." 

But she'd arise, put on the starched percale, 

Perhaps a flannel wrapper this morning, 

The fall was here again in spite of her. 

But when she looked beyond the woodshed door 

And saw but one log left for winter fuel 

She thought of plans for winter long delayed. 

The cellar storehouse should be full by now: 

Lavender turnips . . . beets for pickling down 

Pungent stuffed peppers . . . eggs in water glass. 

Instead the empty crocks brought back the time 

Their sealing wax and unbleached muslin tops 

Protected quantities of gingered pear 

And quince conserve and plum, that centered the 

Long family table at Thanksgiving time. 

But Grandma Pierce would have no feast this year: 

Her trees were sterile and the chickens gone: 

She'd had no strength to plant the garden sauce. 

Her small supply of dollars in the bank 

Were used for taxes: help for Lutie's boy, 

Or brother Amos over at the Falls 

Whose rheumatism had him down again. 

She'd better save the solitary log . . . 

Get breakfast anyway. There still were chips 

Enough to fire the empty-ovened stove. 

Well, then ... a pot of tea. Some tea remained, 

A little sugar in the hobnail bowl, 

A bit of wrapped bread in the japanned box. 

"I'll eke out for another day or two, 

For its own hoop binds every tub," she said. 

Easing down softly in the maple chair . . . 

"Another week and then the Tennant quilt, 

Stitched in cathedral pattern, will be through : 

I can't ask them for cash until it's done. 

Then I'll have fire . . . and fresh New England stew! 

A smaller thimble, wider quilting frames. 

But then ... I reckon I had better take 

A few old pieces to the antique shop. 


They've wanted the rosewood melodeon , . ." 

She opened wide the corner cupboard door, 

And took the Wedgwood platter to her breast : 

Ran knotted fingers round its classic edge : 

She handled, too, the old pink luster cups . . . 

The crystal bread tray with "The Last Supper," 

The whirling caster and the pewter spoons. 

Then she put on her black plush redingote . . . 

The satin toque with pet-made wheat and oats, 

Pressing the watered ribbon ties with hands 

That trembled knotting them beneath her chin. 

Reaching the loosened step before her house 

The binding of her frayed silk skirt was caught 

Upon the iron boot-scraper, throwing her, 

The precious Wedgwood platter and the cups 

Into a broken heap upon the walk. 

"Pride came," she said, "and tripped me. Guess I love 

Earthly possessions far more than I should, 

And now I'll have to go on, anyway." 

She stopped at Teasdales on her way to town : 

Her memory was failing. Where was she ? 

"Too bad you didn't get here earlier, 

We'd like to have you come another time: 

The antique shop is only two more blocks." 

But Grandma Pierce returned exhausted to 

Her own house, leaned against the iron-hinged door, 

Breathing a sigh as though resigned to fate. 

Her curved back bent again above the quilt : 

She stabbed it with a trained and expert hand 

With waving thread held taut above her thumb. 

The needle when it pierced the tightened cloth 

Made sounds like winter apples falling on 

A rain-soaked ground among the yellow leaves. 

But hunger that had weakened her thin frame 

Was master now. She could no longer see 

To thread the large-eyed needle any more. 

Why was her first-born, John, so close today? 

He who had died in prison, sent for theft 

His mother's faith had never believed guilt. 

The time was long . . . almost her lifetime long . . . 

Why had they never found the stolen funds ? 

"And his rosebush, the one I helped him plant 

When he was six and wearing braid-trimmed kilts, 

Bloomed out of season this year, when before 

It was as timely as the equinox." 


She inventoried things that he had made ; 

The chest of drawers, the lyre-carved music rack 

To stand beside the instrument he loved. 

"I'll dust his things . . . for the last time, perhaps,'* 

She staggered for a moment, then dropped down 

Upon the floor near the melodeon. 

The faded gingham dust-cloth caught upon 

Some odd protuberance ... a rusty nail . . . 

She pulled it, and a drawer not known before 

Revealed itself with stacks of yellow coins : 

And paper bills fit for a prince's store 

Littered her lap and braided oval rug. 

Could John have known? Could he have visioned this? 

The picture of his mother dependent? 

And then that instant, as she tried to raise 

Her weary body on uncertain feet, 

A chord of music came forth from the keys 

No hand had touched for twenty years or more, 

And there beside her stood the form of John. 

She felt the knife-sharp twinge beneath her breast; 

Closing her eyes she fell back to the floor, 

A peace unspeakable lighting her face. 

And when the neighbors found her there next day, 

With golden coins scattered at her feet, 

The Deacon Smalley said through his harelip: 

"The way she worked . . . and helped her kith and kin, 

Who would a thought ... or would a ever dreamed 

We had a miser living in our midst ?" 

The Chicago (III.) Tribune. Rachel Mack Wilson. 

"A Line o' Type or Two' 3 Nov. 9, 1932. 


There is nothing to be said ; 

Such a grief must walk unfriended. 
Leave your helpless tears unshed ; 
There is nothing to be said. 
Upon ravaged hearts and dead 

Fall your words, however splendid; 
There is nothing to be said ; 

It is ended ; it is ended. 

The Chicago (III.) Tribune. Dorothy Kissling. 



Is this a time for poetry? 

For little word, for lovely sound, 
When in the busy world of men 

The wolves of hunger stalk around 
The idle wheels of industry. 

Is this a time for poetry? 

When women walk a dreary way 
And children cry for milk and bread 

While crime grows bolder every day 
Spurred on by life's necessity. 

Is this a time for poetry? 

I answer, "Yes." A time to sound 
A word of hope, of cheer, of love 

And spread the tiding all around, 
God still is God and reigns above, 
In ringing words of poetry ! 

The Charleston (S. C.) Post. Mary Pollard Tynes. 


We each must hoard 

When nights grow old 
(And the best in us 

Is spent or sold), 
A dream that costs nothing 

Except for the knowing 
That man must envy 

The river its flowing, 
Its flowing that runs 

Composedly free 
. To bring a dream 

To the heart of the sea. 
For rivers must carry 

A scrap of blue sky 
To patch the green ocean 

Before they run dry. 
And man, too, must rush 

(Who'll tell him where?) 
To find haloes of gold 

For his thinning hair. 

The Chicago (III.) Tribune. Rosa Zagnoni Marinoni. 
"A Line o' Type or Two." 



Last night 

the neighbors sat around 
and gazed upon your face ; 
they said you looked so fair 
there in your silken shroud 
and shawl of ivory lace. 


the neighbors are at home, 
you lie beneath the sod . . . 
listening to the autumn wind, 
gossiping with God. 

The Chicago (III.) Tribune. Lou Mallory Luke. 

"A Line o y Type or Two'' Nov. 22, 1932. 


You came, like some soft wind at early night, 

Swift recognition deep within your eyes ; 

And unbelief was there, a bright surprise 
At finding one who mirrored back your light ; 
Some one to give you peace . . . that sweet content 
Your soul went seeking far; and merriment 
To flash across a sombre mood, a smile 

Like something you no longer dreamed to see. 
You rested here, you spent a little while. 

(And that is how a friend once came to me.) 

Would that the tale were finished there, 

But I 
Cannot forget that once I knew the way 

You broke within my armor, into my 
Poor soul, and left it naked to the day ; 
While I, in trust, thought nothing you might do 
Could ever change the way that I loved you. 
There is a law that no man dare to break, 

A law of salt and bread that has no end . . . 
But, for another's, more than for your sake, 

Illusion stays. And still I call you friend. 

The Chicago (III.) Tribune. Don Farran. 

"A Line o' Type or Two" Jan., 1932. 



The homeless, the vagrant, 

Who sleep beneath the stars ; 
The dusty, the ragged, 

You pass in your cars; 
The trampers, the hungry, 

With wind-ruffled hair, 
Who walk ever onward, 

Whose goal is Nowhere 
At times look bewildered 

Through space at the skies, 
As if veils were lifting, 

From their tired eyes. 

And though it seems silly, 

I like to believe, 
Those homeless, those vagrants, 

At times can perceive, 
Through lowered lashes, 

A face in the sun, 
From which a voice whispers : 

"Are you tired my son?" 

The Chicago (III.) Tribune. Rosa Zagnoni Marinoni. 
ec A Line 'o Type or Two." 


It's not the depression that made you poor, 

For many were poor before ; 
It's lack of Faith that pulls you down, 

Not trouble at the door. 
You may have beauty, health and wealth, 

And land and golden store, 
But without Faith all these are vain 

And men will call you poor ; 
For gold can melt and beauty fade 

And drought your harvest claim, 
But your Faith in God and your fellowman 

Can always be the same. 
% So lift your head and play the game 

And life you'll understand; 
It isn't wealth that pulls you through, 

It's Faith in God and man. 

The Cincinnati Times-Star. Virginia Lee Ward. 



Whene'er, t at night, I gaze to solemn sky, 
I see a brilliant necklace strung on high 
A chain of worlds to form that sparkling band, 
And held within the hollow of God's Hand. 

Each night each star assumes its wonted place, 
And varies no iota its allotted space, 
Where thousand million planets intersperse 
Within the ordered orbits of the universe. 

And as these pendant worlds in silence speed, 
I humbly sit in reverential heed 
Of God's unfathomed pov/r, revealed me by 
The startling wonders of the evening sky. 

Oh, cynic mockers, cast your thoughts upon 
Each wondrous phase of this phenomenon, 
For no one can, forsooth, an atheist be, 
Who heeds the tale of God's astronomy! 

The New Canaan Advertiser. 
September 28, 1932. 

Herman A. Heydt. 



Don't say that even now there creep 

Long shadows on the lawn 
It seems but one rose-scented hour 

Since birdsong woke the dawn. 

I meant to do a host of things : 

A little frock to hem, 
And baby socks to fold and darn 

A dainty heap of them. 

I planned to sweep and dust today 

And bake a cherry pie 
I only briefly watched the thrush 

That taught her young to fly. 

The pansies looking up at me 

Deserved a word or two, 
And there were tender vines to train 

Before a high wind blew. 

The yellow vested honey-bee 

Delayed me with its song, 
And buds were opening in scores 

Yet did I tarry long? 

The far blue heavens lifted up 

My very heart at dawn, 
And I have been so glad, but yet 

Where has the sweet day gone? 

The Christian Science Monitor. Maude de Verse Newton. 


The tapestry of summer 

Is suddenly gay with fall, 
Woven on yellow warp threads 

To the tune of a brown thrush call. 
Crimson and gold and umber 

Hilltop and vale and plain 
Beauty beyond expressing, 

Autumn again. 

The Christian Science Monitor. Helen Maring. 



I love to sing of country folks 
And hear their singing too; 
I love to listen to the jokes, 
Though they may not be new; 

There's something wholesome and profound 
In country folks and country ground. 

I love to sing of country brooks 

Down in the wooded hills, 
Away from boresome tasks and books, 
From roaring streets and mills. 

For country brooks with lilting strain 
Sing me a song of youth again. 

I love to sing of country ways 

And roads that thread the scene, 
The little lane that idly strays 
Along the village green. 

For country roads and lanes, I guess, 
Are avenues to happiness. 

The Cincinnati (Ohio) Times-Star. A. S. King. 


Great men while living rear their monuments 

With each unselfish act and noble thought. 
His towers to the sky who shaped events 

Of his far time so gloriously and wrought 
So much with little, trusting high unseen 

Omnipotence to guide him when his light 
Was dimmed by suffering, and soldiers' lean, 

Gaunt faces visited his dreams at night. 
We know he builded well ; like Liberty, 

America's dear Goddess, his shaft shines 
Before the world a valedictory 

To us, who are too prone to follow signs 
And portents void of wisdom, which should stay 

Our drifting hearts and counsel us to pray. 

The Cincinnati (Ohio) Times-Star. Mabel Posegate. 



Some walked with you on shining roads 

Where laughter filled the skies ; 
On bitter trails we met ; I read 

The secret of your downcast eyes. 

But, always, you were hard and vain, 

Too proud to share your woe ; 
And I, the friend of lonely roads, 

Could only sigh and go. 

The Cincinnati (Ohio) Times-Star. Dell H. Pate. 


Life is an inn where all must stay 
Not long at most, some but a day. 

How marvelous that we should be 
Accorded so much courtesy, 
When payment is a modest thing, 
Determined by the coin we bring ! 

I'd like to feel that when I go, 
My small apartment will not show 
Rough usage, stains and needless scars, 
Or any trace that really mars 
The loveliness that greeted me. 

Departing, I'll go happily, 

If I may hold this thought in mind, 

"All other guests have found me kind." 

The Cincinnati Times-Star. B. Y. Williams. 


(To one who waits) 
If I should reach the Pier of Death 

Before my ship is due, 
Oh, may I bear the waiting hours 

As gallantly as you ! 

You watch for Silent, Silver Sails, 

Unmoved by pain's delay, 
Convincing me, you'll journey home, 

A safe and splendid way. 

The Cincinnati (Ohio) Times-Star. Grace Conner Harris. 



Grandmothers of the present day 

Are not like those of old; 
They do not sit in corners 

And do what they are told. 

They wear the prettiest kind of clothes, 

And even bob their hair, 
And some that we have read about 

Have traveled in the air. 

But there is one old-fashioned trait 

To which grandmothers cling: 
They love the little girls and boys, 

In spite of everything. 

The Cincinnati (Ohio) Times-Star. L. F. Mattox. 


I say, "Tis God holds out his hand," 
When we meet more than we can stand. 

"A mechanism in the brain, 

Defends as friend and keeps us sane?" 

Let it be so ! I do not care 

I know 'twas God who willed it there. 

The Cincinnati (Ohio) Times-Star. 

Nellie Sprague Mullikin. 


We used to call it Giving. 

As from our surplus store 
We aided ill and needy, 

Nor thought of doing more. 

But now we call it Sharing, 

As comrades on the road 
Divide their daily portions 

And lift each other's load. 

The Cincinnati (Ohio) Times-Star. Laura M. Cobb. 



The world is broke and so am I ; 

The outlook's blue; 
The wise guys all are asking why 

The scads have flew 

And where ; for anywhere you look 

There's not a cent; 
A dollar bill's so like a spook 

'Twould scare a gent. 

If in an alleyway he saw 

Its shadow flit 
He'd likely yell out loud for ma 

And throw a fit. 

I wish the dark, depressing cloud 

Would eftsoon flash 
The silver lining of the shroud 

That hides the cash. 

And drop some nickels from on high, 

And start a "boom 
Tarara" that would end the sky 

And bust the gloom 

That like a nightmare sits and gloats 

Upon my chest, 
And I might find some treasury notes 

Inside my vest, 

To give my unproved spirit wings 

To fly where rhymes . 
Are found to fit a song that sings 

Out joyous chimes ! 

The Cincinnati (Ohio) Times-Star. John Culleton. 


Is a slave-driver 
Who binds his victims 
With the heavy chains 
Of bigotry. 

The Dallas (Texas) Journal William Allen Ward. 

Oak Cliff Edition, August 3, 1932. 



When Beauty came shivering, 

Pinched with the cold, 
I gave her the warm shawl 

Which I had been told 
To keep for the winter 

When I should be old. 

When Beauty came hungry 

And crying for bread, 
There wasn't a thing 

In the world to be said ; 
I gave her my heart then, 

That she might be fed. 

When so much is given, 

Well why not the whole? 
If Beauty should come again 

Asking for dole, 
I know that I could not 

Refuse her my soul ! 

The Cincinnati (Ohio) Times-Star. B. Y. Williams. 


Why do ye stand for the likes o' it, Pat, 
Her scoldin' ye all day like that?" 
Aisy, me lad, jist let 'er bawl, 
Ye don't understand at all, at all. 
Whin she praises me, sez I'm grand, 
And jist the finest in the land, 
I'm mis'rable inside and beat ; 
Makes me feel jist like a cheat, 
Knowin' well meself to be 
Naught but a worthless chimpanzee, 
A low down, heartless cuss, ye see, 
Unfit fer me angel's company. 
But whin she up and tells the trut' 
All mad and jist a little cryin' 
I brace up, feel good and free, 
Fer then I know she ain't quit tryin' 
To make a decent man o' me. 

The Cincinnati (Ohio) Times-Star. W. N. Hirst. 



I may not see a crimson dawn 

Stain the white check of the morn, 

Never dew upon the grass, 

Nor the gold of ripening- corn ; 

I may not see a sunset melt 

Sweetly on the breast of night, 

Nor a dome above me twinkle 

With the hosts of starry light; 

Never may I see a bluebird 

Flash his splendor in the sun, 

Or the moonbeam paint the hillside 

When a summer day is done. 


I have heard a thrush singing, 

While soft on the roof fell the rain, 

And though I see not the minstrel, 

I thrill at the dauntless refrain ; 

And if I see not the colors 

That mantle the earth and the sky, 

I hear the meaning 

Of khaki and blue 

As the serried ranks pass by. 

Oh, I hear 

The wondrous music 

Of faithful marching feet, 

And my heart it follows the banner 

Along the cobbled street. 

My spirit rests in my shaded tent, 

My heart holds a vision fair; 

For only the tender, the true and the good, 

Are faithfully mirrored there. 

The Cincinnati (Ohio) Times-Star. Terry B. DinkeL 


My heart is thirsting 

For the deep well of silence 

That reflects all things. 

The Hartford (Conn.) Courant. Mary Owen Lewis. 



Your voice had ceased I saw a dimming ray 

Within your eyes, and silently we sat 
While for a moment years were swept away . . . 

A noise outside . . . and we resumed our chat, 
And then again my eyes stared into space . . . 

Our minds went groping through an ancient door ; 
My eyes were blinded, I forgot your face 

Forgot your presence till a clock chimed four. 

We talked then, loudly, yet I cannot tell 
One thing we said before I left you there. 

My mind was pacing in a narrow cell, 
And yours was climbing up an ancient stair . . . 

For though we scarcely spoke Her name at all, 
Her vision watched us, and we heard Her call. 

The Columbus (Ohio) Citizen. Robert Schre filer. 

April 14, 1932. 


There must be something very near divine 
In Mother Nature's heart to so confine 
Her thoughts to noble things, like giving birth 
To wondrous works of beauty, such as earth. 

Her dainty woodland blossoms can compel 
The pause of nature-lovers, in the dell ; 
Her songs that flood the valleys, cool and dense, 
Can fill an hour with jbys, supreme, intense. 

Too often do the wild things far outgrow 

Her first impulse ; yet, may this not be so ? 

She feels that man, the image of his God, 

Should tame, improve, the wild growth of the sod. 

No doubt old Mother Nature marvels too 
At splendid works of art our mortals do; 
Yet, she must know it is a plan of Fate, 
For man to feel the urge to imitate. 

What hand can reproduce a starlit sky? 
God's mode of blending colors, who shall try? 
The secret is old Nature's cherished scheme, 
To keep life mystical, so man will dream. 

The Columbus (Ohio) Dispatch. Theressa M. DeFosset. 
July, 1932. 



In a dark dust covered attic 
A sampler was found one day; 

One side was just a mass of knots, 
In colors once bright and gay. 

The other side read, "God is Love," 

In letters bold and clear, 
Of silken thread in perfect line, 

Spoke of our Savior dear. 

One side of life is just a maze 

Of tangled care and woe, 
But, too, there is the brighter side, 

And God is love, we know. 

The Columbus (Ohio) Citizen. Ethel Titus Worthen. 
Nov., 1932. 


The music of a lute or lyre 

Can set my lagging pulse afire. 

It's rhythmic beat though strumming low, 

Brings to my heart a fancied glow 

As on a hearth whose embers gleam, 

Although the blaze is gone. Sweet dream 

That wakes when humming lute or lyre 

Has set my sleeping pulse afire, 

Come to me through the shadowed gloom 

And brighten up my lonely room. 

The Columbus (Ohio) Dispatch. Mary E. Schanck. 

June 19, 1932. 


Shall I, if I should live to be 
As old as an October tree, 
Hold beauty half as rich and rare? 
Have sunshine in my heart and hair, 
And stand unbowed before the wind, 
Knowing the peace that comes behind 
The chilly and the stinging blast? 
Though I stand stripped of leaves at last, 
Shall I, when every leaf shall fall, 
Still listen for the bird's clear call? 

The Columbus (Ohio) Dispatch. Mildred Maralyn Mercer. 



Sometimes I think the angels know 
Just how life deals with men below, 
And watching there, they breathe a prayer 
To lift the loads we sometimes bear ; 
For I have seen the sunlight fall 
Without a warning ray at all ! 
Just suddenly shot through the gray 
Of clouds to make a fairer day. 
So I have felt my spirits rise 
Like some glad echo of surprise! 
Perhaps the angels prayed for me 
To look at life more cheerfully! 

The Columbus (Ohio) Dispatch. Mildred Schanck. 

July 18, 1932. 


Bring me gay bittersweet, fresh from the wood 
To place on the mantel where candles once stood ; 
And bring me enough for the vase of old blue, 
To trail down the sides, as you'd have it do. 

Bring from the woods the gay bittersweet 

To make in dull winter a pleasant retreat ; 

Its little red tapers dispel all the gloom 

With the sunshine imprisoned in each tiny bloom. 

The Columbus (Ohio) Dispatch. Hazel Shinn Krumm. 
Nov. 27, 1932. 


I saw the sun's last glory in the skies, 

I saw cloud-mountains, castles white and fair ; 

And mirrored pools where pictured beauty lies, 
When suddenly a Hand was writing there 

In silvered letters sharp and clear. 

Belshazzar trembled when upon a wall 
Letters of fire condemned the sons of men; 

But love seemed written in the sky for all ... 
And understanding hearts grew quiet then 

Knowing that God was near. 

The Columbus (Ohio) Dispatch. Hilda Mane Green. 
Aug. p, 1932. 



The sun, climbing down from the top of the sky, 
Stares wide-eyed and red at the scene; 

He visions the lake and the boats floating by, 
And its borders of vanishing green. 

And, pausing a moment in playful repose, 

He picks up his brushes with zest, 
And paints with the brightest of colors he knows 

The clouds all afloat in the west 

Bright gold for the edge of the fleeciest shreds, 

Rich gold for the centers of blue, 
With splashes of turquoise and crimsons and reds 

That stream down to me and to you. 

They touch, too, the watery face of the lake, 

A-wrinkled a bit by the breeze 
Art gold of the finest Etrurian make 

And gild, too, the green of the trees. 

And yonder is cloud-stuff, black, heavy and dread, 

Aloof from the others so gay, 
All ready, it seems, for the needle and thread 

To fashion the shroud of the day. 

A spectacle this that no art can conceive; 

No artist would paint it, and sign; 
And, seeing on canvas, no man would believe 

Mere man cannot grasp the divine. 

The Columbus (Ohio) Dispatch. Osman C. Hooper. 

October 3, 


I liked you 

Because you were modern. 

I admired your 

Frank decisions, 

I thought that was your big appeal for me, 

But, alas, these selfsame qualities 

Now have torn my heart 

And left me 


The Dallas (Texas) Journal. Lexie Jean Lowman. 

Oak Cliff Edition, October 10, 1932. 



Listen, my son, from one who has lived, 
It's always important to know how to die ; 

Roll up your sleeve and hit with your fist 
Look: life, my boy, straight in the eye. 

It's easy to wear a rose in your coat, 
It's easy to laugh when things are okay ; 

But learn how to take a lick on the chin 
There's plenty of thorns along life's way. 

The Dallas (Texas) Journal. William Allen Ward. 

Oak Cliff Edition, May 2, 1932. 


Here in my room 
A bit of bloom 
Breathes tenderly 
Your love for me ; 

Straight from my heart 
Like cupid's dart 
My love as true 
Swift flies to you ; 

I have no choice 
My thought to voice, 
Save in dull tone 
Of words alone; 

Were gratitude 
With wings endued, 
Mine would arise 
Unto the skies; 

Is there no earth 
A thing of worth 
Wherein I may 
This debt repay? 

Though small it seem, 
Still would you deem 
As guerdon fair 
A grateful prayer? 

The Dallas (Texas) Journal. Louis J. Harrington. 

Oak Cliff Edition, March 29, 1932. 



Sometimes the clinging shadows steal 

The sunbeams from a happy heart ; 
And restless days of life reveal 

The poignant, aching smart 
Of cruel tears, that fill a soul 

With floods of trickling agony. 
And so it was that grief took toll 

From One, who knew on Calvary, 
More pain than this! The drops He shed 
Were Tears of Life His Spirit bled, 
To ease the hours of agony 
That shadows sometimes bring to me. 

The Columbus (Ohio) Dispatch. Mildred Schanck. 

Nov. 14, 1932. 


If I could sit and think and write 
And make my fortune overnight, 
Inditing what you want to read, 
But never giving thought to read, 
To what my words might do to you 
I wouldn't do it, nor would you. 

If I could buy a grocery store 

And make my fortune and some more 

By selling goods of any kind, 

But never having aught in mind 

Of what those goods might do to you 

I wouldn't do it, nor would you. 

If I could take what I have got 
And make my fortune on the spot, 
By using wit and common sense, 
By saving odds and ends and pence, 
Without a thought of recompense 
I wouldn't do it, nor would you. 

Oh, no, for fortune to be real, 
Must be in what we are and feel, 
And life is not to get, but give, 
In order that some one may live. 
So here I see what's really true 
My fortune's made in making you. 

The Dallas (Texas) Journal. F. J. Earl 

Oak Cliff Edition, May 15, 1932. 



I stood beside a field of ripened grain 

And saw a world without enough to eat; 
Unnumbered children weakened from the strain 

Of gnawing hunger. Men that walked the street 
From early dawn until the close of day; 

They did not beg, they only asked to be 
Allowed to work. The right to earn their way 

Without our systemed alms or charity. 

Once more I stood beside a field of grain 

And saw another world. Men everywhere 
Had work to do. There was no haunting pain 

Of poverty, for each one had a share ; 
And in the doorways happy children played. 

Peace walked abroad the land grim fear had fled 
Dear God, for this our yearning hearts have prayed, 

That men have work and little children bread. 

The Columbus (Ohio) Dispatch. Virginia Eaton. 

September 28, 


He was so strong, courageous and alive, 

Bore manhood with such frank and knightly air 

There was no need for him to sweat and strive, 
Life's gifts were his, however dear and fair. 

Right sturdily he shouldered gun that day 
The merriest among a group of friends ; 

His was the shot that felled the buck at bay 
And his the triumph such a feat attends. 

With skillful knife the quarry then he dressed 
(Nor sensed that other hunter drawing near) 

And laughed just as the bullet found his breast, 
Sped by a stranger stalking the same deer. 

How subtly Destiny contrived this whim: 
That while he hunted game, Death hunted him! 

The Dallas (Texas) Morning News. Lucie GUI Price. 
February 14, 1932. 



'Tis not a day just set apart for pleasure, 

For noise and merry-making, pomp and show; 

But may we have in ever growing measure 
The spirit of that day, so long ago 

When our forefathers pledged, in convocation, 

Reserving but the right to happiness, 
Their fortunes, lives and honor to their nation, 

Through Brotherhood, can you and I do less? 

The right to live, our happiness pursuing, 
So that another's loss be not our gain; 

As we this pledge of service are renewing 
Each year, we too will not have lived in vain. 

The Cumberland (Md.) News. Sara Roberta Getty. 


A time for the fruiting of plum trees, 
A leafing time, too, for the rose, 

A time for the calling to neighbors 
Across the new sprouting hedge rows. 

A time for the planting of zinnias, 

I'll put a new rose cutting here, 
A time to show faith by our planting 

Tis spring then each day of the year. 

The Dallas (Texas) Journal. Minnie Roberts Dreesen. 
Oak Cliff Edition, May 20, 1932. 


The poet's pen will finally thrust 
Its grief and laughter into dust, 
And all the singing words it spread 
Be hushed among the silent dead. 

The skylark will forget the hour 
It paused above a summer flower, 
But all the songs that poets wrote 
Live in your young retentive throat. 

The Detroit (Mich.) News. Cecilia Maloney. 

(c Random Shots," September 27, 1932. 



What matter if hibiscus flowers fling 

Their scarlet blossoms toward the azure sky, 
What matter if the gentle breezes bring 

Exotic perfumes when I can but sigh? 
Each perfect moon that rises from the sea 

Inviting lovers out beneath its beams, 
Now draws no happy word nor thought from me 

But adds a poignant sadness to my dreams. 

We met beneath the lacy palms one night 
With spell of moon and flowers Ah! what bliss, 

Her lovely face aglow with filtered light 
As we embraced in that first perfect kiss. 

O, cruel fate! That she is here no more, 
And I am left alone upon the shore. 

The Dallas (Texas) Journal. R. Linn Crockett. 

Oak Cliff Edition, September 3, 1932. 


What does it matter, dear, 

Ten rooms or two? 
If we find happiness, 

All the days through. 

Castle or tumbledown, 

Either will be 
Heaven, if I may but 

Dwell there with thee. 

Knowing the heart-glowing 

Warmth of thy smile, 
Feeling thy rapturous 

Presence the while. 

Sharing life's joy and its 

Sadness, dear heart, 
Walking beside thee till 

Death do us part. 

Castle or tumbledown, 

Either will be 
Heaven, if I may but 

Dwell there with thee. 

The Detroit (Mich.) News. Dorothy Howells Walker. 



When I was just a little girl, 

I held a world of things. 
My room a castle, dolls were babes, 

And I had ruby rings ; 
And bracelets studded with real pearls, 

And brooches made of gold. 
But all of these are in my dreams, 

And none to have or hold. 

Still in my childish mind 

They were both beautiful and real; 
And from my thoughts these wondrous things 

No crafty thief could steal. 
But now possessions that I have 

I needs must hide away; 
And fight and scheme and plot and plan. 

Lest someone steal my prey. 

I often wonder if t'would be 

Much better for me now, 
If all the worth-while golden things 

Were in the mind, somehow. 
Oh, I'd love to live in castles high, 

And move in drowsy dreams ; 
Build transient fantasies as frail 

As toy boats on a stream. 

But I shall wave away my crowns, 

My robes too good for kings ; 
Bid farewell to my tender hopes, 

To live my life of things. 

The Dallas (Texas) Journal. Elaine Bassett. 

Oak Cliff Edition, March I, 1932. 


No other music equals this paean of the trees : 
A choir of eucalypti, singing in the breeze. 
Antiphonal, a farther grove wafts forth a clear reply, 
Symphonic praise of wind and rain and earth and kindly 

The Mitt Valley (Calif.) Record. Elinor Lennen. 

June 17, 1932. 



Sweet maiden, do not tempt the sky, 
For danger lurks with those who fly, 
You're hazarding your life, dear girl, 
For you are of great price, the pearl. 

There's no certainty when you sail, 
And count your lot with wings and tail, 
That worthy plane, though splendid now, 
May fail you in the air you plow. 

To imitate the eagle thou, 
And spread your golden wings I trow, 
Afar, through space ride on, and round, 
Upon the lovely world, look down. 

The ocean is a treacherous fair, 
But you, dear one, would sail on air, 
Take the world, it is better here, 
For honors, fame, less risk, my dear. 

You brilliant bird with colors gay, 
Such art display, along your way, 
But oh ! If you should fail my dear, 
Stay on the land, its safer here. 

I'd sooner, like the turtle pace, 
Than try to fly, with artful grace, 
Though he is slow, he knows he's safe, 
Dear ; thwart the danger, quit the race. 

The Dallas (Texas) Journal. Mrs. Susan A. Garrison. 
Oak Cliff Edition, January i, 1932. 


You invaded my heart like a rebel 

For hostage took all and made flight 

Trampled my dreams and then left me 
As some city sadc'd in the night. 

How does it feel to be victor 

To know you have battled and won? 

I wouldn't think taking an unarmed fort 
Could be so very much fun. 

The Dallas (Texas) Journal. Elaine Bassett. 

Oak Cliff Edition, June 22, 



The shades of light were falling toward the east 

While Venice, silent city of the sea, 
Lay dressed in powdered gold for autumn's feast 

And caught in beauty's net for you and me. 

Transcendent was my soul as I beheld 

The liquid labyrinths in golden sun 
And saw old marble palaces upheld 

By brilliant sunset, as man's work was done. 

And woven looms of life long in the tomb 
Were souls of mystery from "Books of Gold" 

Who prayed in poems, painted in the gloom 
And are forgotten, thus the tales are told. 

O, jeweled barge, set in an ether sea, 
You fill my eyes with mist, it's God I see ! 

The Dallas (Texas) News. Bertram Day. 

Oak Cliff Edition, October p, 1932. 


(Fiftieth anniversary of Long-fellow's death, March 24, 1932.) 

He wanted more than all to leave behind 
A "tower of song" where sleeping words could stir 
Beneath an artist's brushes, from the blur 

To paint strange pictures on the transient mind; 

A "tower of song" where one might go and find 
A flash of beauty where no sounds occur 
To split the silence where the gods confer 

And Muses keep their precepts not unkind. 

Though Time has seized its toll of day and year 

Along these halls the sad Evangeline 
Seeks for her missing Gabriel, and here 

John Alden and Priscilla leave their sign ; 
And here by Minnehaha's falls, yet known, 
Is Hiawatha struck in deathless stone. 

The Detroit (Mich.) News. Helen Janet Miller. 

"Random Shots/' March 24, 




'-THESE winds can be 

as light and gay 
As butterflies upon the 


Or little kittens frolicking 
At play. 

And then like cats that 

hiss and growl, 
They pierce the stillness 

of the night; 
They claw the trees with 

all their might, 
As hungry wolves that 

snarl and howl 
At bay. 

The Columbus (Ohio) Dispatch. Tessa Sweasy Webb. 



It cannot be that I can walk along 

With bundles in my arm and steady tread, 

And never laugh aloud nor lose my head, 

While all my heart is running wild with song 

It cannot be no one in all this throng 

Can hear the thunder of the things you said 

Over my bundles and my loaf of bread, 

Nor see the way I tremble who am strong. 

And should the sound have reached them of your word 

A pleasant bidding of the time o' day 

And if my casual answer had been heard 

A nodding "Yes," to what you had to say 

They'd call the tumult in my heart absurd 

Yes, even you, who spoke and went your way. 

The Detroit (Mich.) News. Cecil Rives Dudley. 

"Random Shots'" July 27, 1932. 


The golden sun sets like a gem 

'Midst snow-capped Cascades of the west, 

And silver streamlets born in them 
Leap onward toward the ocean's crest. 

Each singing loudly nature's song 

Each pealing joy through dale and fen 

Where western breezes carry on 
A welcome to the sons of men. 

Like giants towering toward the moon 

Are trees that kiss an azure sky, 
And nod sedately to the loon 

Who laughs aloud his vacant cry. 

Like sapphire gems the icy lakes 

Make soft the blackness of the night, 

And peal through every wave that breaks 
Joy to the wanderer in his flight. 

Oh nature loving, seeking man! 

Let every courtesy express 
The joy of God, in nature's plan, 

Her simple, wholesome, loveliness! 

The Gary (Ind.) Post-Tribune. John Allison Haining. 
"Tom Cannon's Flue Dust'' September 3, 1932. 



Our nation's head today is bowed in shame, 

We hesitate to lift our eyes and see 
The stars and stripes, that to the world proclaim 

The land of truth, a nation brave and free. 
For freedom is a thing we cannot know, 

While human beasts can safely prowl about, 
And snatch a sleeping babe, and swiftly go 

Back to the dark from which they came, and flout 
Their crime! We weep, but must do more than weep, 

This is no time for tears, work must be done, 
A mighty task is ours if we would keep 

Our nation's honor, now so nearly gone, 
A baby died! A nation must arise! 

Or fear the wrath of Heaven from the skies! 

The Enid Morning News. Helen Parkinson Ned. 

May 15, 1932. 


The land of the rock and the running stream 

Is feeling the stir of youth again, 
As the sea on the beach lays a gentler hand, 

And the mountains loosen their icy chain. 

The pear tree whitens the wayside farm, 
The willows brighten, the maples glow, 

By the rising sap every bud is thrilled, 
And man's heart beats to the pulse below. 

Then a dawning breaks when the world is numb. 

The pear tree blossoms with snow are filled, 
The sky-blue lake has an ice-splintered heart, 

With youth's first sorrow the world is filled. 

But no lingering winter can rob the world 
Of the great rebirth. Soon the melting snow 

From the opening buds stir the grass beneath, 
As tears late shed urge new hopes to grow. 

For these hazed-hills nourish hardy life, 

Where spring meets winter to pause halfway; 

And New England earth, like the guarded heart, 
Finds joy but sweeter for brief delay. 

The Hartford (Conn.) Times. Louise F. Elmendorf. 
"The Poefs Corner," May 10, 1932. 



If you come here, 

If you stay there, 

Flowers you'll see 

Most everywhere. 
Some are pretty and some are not. 

It seems to me, 
Flowers having the best of care 
Are the prettiest in the lot. 

Children, too, like lovely flowers, 
Are sent to bless this world of ours ; 
Transplanted from the fields above 
Flowers and children are made to love. 

The Fort Payne (Ala.) Journal. Myrtle H. McCormack. 


The Spirits of the Indian tales 

Have claimed another prey. 
Two out of three adventurers 

Found Death upon their way. 
The third, who fought the storm and cold 

And won despite the odds, 
Must wear through all his haunted days 

The brand of hostile gods. 

We try to civilize the peak 

And tame it to our hand. 
We named it for our Chief of Men, 

The Father of our land. 
But Spirits of the Indian Age, 

Who held the tribes in fear, 
Cling fondly to their ancient home 

And rule it half the year. 

When timbered sides and treeless crest 

Are drenched in summer sun, 
The mountain may be kind to you. 

It then is Washington. 
But when it shrouds itself in white 

Against the eyes of men, 
Avoid it as you would the Plague! 

It is Agiochook then. 

The Franklin (N. H.) Journal-Transcript. 

February 11, 1932. Claribel Weeks Avery. 



A riot of colors, gold, russet and red, 

The blue of the sky like a bowl overhead, 

A grey, laden fence where the tumbleweed rolled 

For a line of defense 'gainst winds, bleak and cold. 

Tall trees that are whipped till they sigh in despair, 
While the gay colored leaves drift about in the air, 
Till a carpet is spread that brings joy to the heart, 
For the elves of the woodland have all had a part 
In preparing the warp and the woof of the whole 
In a beautiful scene to enrapture the soul. 

There's a great flock of sky-rooks who debate in the pines, 
While a hawk soars above as though guarding the lines. 
Fresh furrows turned straight and black, deep and long ; 
The bugle-Kke notes of the meadowlark's song. 
Near at hand, like the tents of an army at rest, 
Stand the neat shocks of corn, in soft khaki dressed, 
And the glow of the straw-piles that burn in the night, 
While the gay summer months bivouac in their flight, 
Sends a welcoming gleam of light o'er the land 
Like a flash of delight for the winter at hand. 

A riot of color, a fringe of blue smoke; 
A fog-bank that gleams like a silvery cloak ; 
A rollicking, frolicking, glittering stream 
That washes the red cedar roots till they gleam. 

The Gary (Ind.) Post-Tribune. John Allison Haining. 
"Tom Cannon's Flue Dust;" September 22, 


The dreaming was so lovely 
And seemingly so true 
I only thought of happiness 
And not a thing to rue. 

And yet the waking hours 
Brought sadness, even pain 
But memory of my dreaming 
Came back with joy again. 

The Hartford (Conn.) Courant. 

March 6, 1932. Florence Van Fleet Lyman. 



Shoulder your burden, comrade 
What though the way be long? 

Ever the distance shortens 
To the gay lilt of song. 

Shoulder your burden, comrade, 

Now let the music start, 
Many a foot grows weary 

Dragging a heavy heart. 

Shoulder your burden, brother, 
Now we have caught the stride, 

Forgetting woes, or heartaches, 
Traveling side by side. 

The Gary (Ind.) Post-Tribune. 

Clara Edmunds Hemingway. 
"Tom Cannon's Flue Dust'' May 27, 1932. 


Steam, smoke, blaze. 
Fire, heat, haze. 
Deafening thud of the steel ; 
How must a riveter feel ? 

To-da-dot-dot-will the noise never stop? 
Ta-da-dot-dot-till they gets to the top. 

Clank, crash, zoom ! 
Beam, derrick, boom ! 
Maddening blows that repeat, 
Clatter disturbing the street. 

Clam-or-ing ham-mer-ing, voice of the steel, 
Rauc-ous-ly ech-oing-peal, upon peal. 

Twirl, toss, catch. 

Aim, sight, snatch. 

Sure that his hand never swerves, 

Spinning his spirals and curves. 

Dodg-ing the iron as it flies past his head. 
A riv-et-er knows neither danger nor dread. 

The Hartford (Conn.) Times. Virginia Lawson. 

"The Poet's Corner" May 10, 1932. 



There is romance 

In common things. 

The well-browned loaf 

Of housewife's art 

The well-cut coat 

The neat-turned shoe 

The green-tilled field 

The rich black hue 

Of miner's yield. 

A snowy wash upon the line 

The hungry brood at even-time. 

A hero's halo can shine 


Each little task of yours or mine 

If done with a contented heart 

It brings romance to common things 

And lends the drudge an angel's wings. 

The Hamilton (Ohio) Journal. Florence Ralston Werum. 


Thank you for your apple tree 
That like a neighbor smiles at me. 

Foam of blossoms white and sweet 
Surging close to my retreat. 

Springtime beauty and perfume 
Reaching for me in my room. 

Rosy cups for drunken bees, 
Petals drifting where they please. 

Sprays that rest against the air 
Like fairy garlands hanging there. 

Miraculous as it can be 

This thrilling vision that I see ! 

(But tell me, do you think it nice 
To steal a tree from Paradise ?) 

The Hartford (Conn.) Times. Marion Short. 

"The Poet's Corner" May 24, 1932. 



Nothing to do but be a bum 

I know Oh! yes but then 
One day was he the babe of some 

Fond mother yes, and when 
She nourished him upon her breast 
What thanks she lisped that she was blest 

With such a baby boy 

Her baby baby joy. 

Nothing to do but be a bum 

I met him on the street 
Today and cold, for snows had come 

I saw his ill shod feet. 
The wind blew hard upon his throat 
He clinched his buttonless old coat 

There shivering with chill 

Just needed a mother still. 

Nothing to do but be a bum 

I thought I heard him speak 
To th' blast perhaps, which now had come 

Making the wind more bleak 
No man would bid him how-d'-ye-do 
From all of the passing crowd; he knew 

One's state can friendship kill 

Beyond what frosts can chill. 

Nothing to do but be a bum 

But yet for all o' that 
My heart aches so whene'er I come 

Across a chap laid flat 
I want to take him by the hand 
God knows I do for understand 

He needs man always will 

Some love like mother's still. 

The Harbor Springs Graphic. Charles A. Heath. 

My 7, 1932. 


Lonely little wisps of fog 

That wander on the land 
Are restless souls of seafolk 

Homesick for the sand. 

TJie Los Angeles (Calif.) Saturday Night. 

Helen Miller Lehman. 



There must be something else 
Besides a sanded curve of shore 

With tangled shells and seaweed; 
There must be something more. 

A tree with icy lacquer, 

That catches lost moon stains, 
Is not its own creator 

Or caused by silver rains. 

A band of crimson sunset, 

Which streaks the limpid sky, 
Flames only for a moment 

Before the colors die. 

There must be something else 

Besides a rainbow spring from sod, 

A thing that wills this beauty ; 
I think men call it God. 

The Hartford (Conn.) Times. Margaret Kowdewski. 
February 16, 1932. 


My friend, the treasured days have not been wasted, 
Wherein we laughed and leapt the silver stream, 

And reveled in the happy hours that hasted 
As in a dream. 

The crescent of the mangoes ; thrushes calling 

Above the velvet valleys, coolly clear, 
Red earth, small nodding ferns, and guavas falling 

And dropping near. 

The trilling of a cricket from a mountain 

Beyond the heaven's margin, strangely sweet ; 

Glass balls, or sunlight from a golden fountain 
Upon our feet. 

What once has been will be a bright hereafter 
Green moss, some lizards, or a slippery rock ; 

Unto this hour, this fellowship and laughter 
Will light the dark. 

The Honolulu (T. H.) Star Bulletin. Charlotte Baldwin. 
May 27, 1932. 



Long winds with rain 

Beat their sharp whips 

Across our eyes ; 

Cold winds and icy rain, rain, 

Beat in a hurricane 

Against the brain, 

Make mute the wails upon the quivering lips, 

And thresh like flails the shivering flesh. 

Long winds and rain 

Enwrap with night plain and height, 

Where we, princes of mirth, 

And of a servile earth 

Conquerors and kings, 

Lost, crying, in a jungle 

Of multiplying things, 

Wrange, or white with fright 

Huddle, in bleak alarm 

At the dark, the dark, and the storm. 

We would not fear so much 
If the storm had not tongues ! 
We would not fear so much 
If the dark had not hands ! 
The tongues utter "Tomorrow!" 
And mutter of sorrow and wrongs. 
The hands like a vice clutch a shoulder 
And leave it colder than ice. 

Our follies and our sins 
Have found us out. 
Our dreams are put to rout. 
Now the atonement begins. 

This is the end of ease. 

This is the end of shimmering levities ; 

Of magic horns that pour 

Luxuriant store into rat-ridden barns. 

This is the end of scorn's 

Mocking of them that plod. 

Behind a glistening door 

Chance turns no more a dazzling wheel 

Or pipes the dance that made our bodies reel. 

This is the end of august lotteries. 

The fires ascend 


From the bright haunts of our idolatries. 

But now it is the god who burns. 

Dazedly to the sea the priests descend. 

This is an end, 

A precipice, a black abyss 

To set the senses spinning, 

An end, this is an end; 

An end, and a beginning. 

Long winds and rain lash on our lips 

The fierce disdain of pitiless whips. 

Across the brain in scarlet gashes 

Sweep, sweep the wild lashes, 

The long winds and the rain, 

The steady earth shakes 

And the hearth breaks, 

Vales crack and swing and mountains agonize, 

Familiar trails heave and uprise, 

It is a fearful thing when an age dies. 

This is an end 

With ghosts and white skulls grinning. 

This is an end, 

This is an end, 

An end 

And a beginning. 

Torment asunder 

Tears the sick earth. 

It is a breathless wonder 

When an age comes to birth, 

New voices, calling, chanting change; 

New choices, bright, appalling, strange. 

Thoughts that are forces, 

Fierce and fleet, 

Plunging like untamed horses 

Along the crowded street. 

New cities and new men; 

New pities and new pain. 

New gods, new visions, 

New rods, new derisions ! 

New worship and new scorning! 

Morning ! And spring ! And wide gates opening 

New tongues in thunder 

Hailing a new earth ! 

It is a breathless wonder 

When an age comes to birth. 


Long winds and rain from icy spaces 

Our thinning garments rend and, dinning, 

Beat in our faces hear it! beat 

The cold refrain of defeat. 

Sustain your spirits and apprehend ! 

There is a richer winning! 

This is an end, 

This is an end, 

An end, 

And a beginning. 

The Hartford (Conn.) Times. Hermann Hagedorn. 

"The Poet's Corner'/ July 12, 1932. 


You say, "she said/' 

But did you hear her say it ? 
You say, "she did," 

But did you see her try it? 

"Know thyself," and let 

The rest be "saying" 
You and I will bow 

Our heads for a little praying. 

The Hartford (Conn.) Times. Lucia C. Brown. 

"The Poet's Corner" March 22, 


In secrecy the trees receive 
The silent, falling rain; 
In secrecy the quiet clouds 
Leave snow upon the plain. 

In secrecy, the flower waits 

To spring, unseen, to light; 

And through the covering wings of gloom, 

The stars awake tonight. 

In secrecy, God works alone 

In the garden of the mind ; 

And picks a rose of faith and prayer, 

The world will never find! 

The Hartford (Conn.) Times. Mary Alethea Woodward. 
"The Poet's Corner," Sept. 13, 1932. 



"Just one more time!" she said 

And she knew her words were a song 

Of a chanter of dreams who shed 
Delight as she winged along. 

"Just one more time 1" she said 

And she knew she could know not why 

We fail when our hearts have bled 
No matter how bravely we try. 

Just one more time she tried 

And a rainbow appear in the sky 
In hues that are destiny-dyed 

For mortals who try and try. 

The Hartford (Conn.) Times. Irl Morse. 


I want not the glances or grimaces 

From nudging, stupid folk who make smooth faces; 

Nor haughty looks from small localities 

That pass one by trying somehow to freeze. 

Nor do I hope for sympathy from those 

Whose brows frown down above an up-turned nose 

Impressive with a suave, disdainful pride 

Of gay hauteur. Nor would I try to hide 

My soul in smugness prevalent as found 

In idle gossip spiteful with the sound 

Of women's voices of an afternoon, 

Play-acting while tinkling a silver spoon. 

For I shall find my own sailing the sea 

Down where the Southern Cross shines over me ; 

And here the threnodies the oceans sing 

Filling my soul with joy these songs must bring. 

Give me some distant space wherein to walk 

Instead of endless superficial talk! 

My home the world; I have no need for those 

Who preen on pride who would forever pose. 

Away with all man's artless puppetry 

Once more I listen to the singing sea ! 

Life's shallow praise I neither want nor heed 

While I hold beauty sacred as my creed. 

The Hartford (Conn.) Times. Caroline Parker Smith. 
April 19, 1932. 



I lift up my eyes to the mountains, 

The eyes that have yearned in vain 
For the comforting strength of their presence 

In a meaningless reach of plain. 

A peace flows over my spirit 

A confident hold on God 
The immutable God of the mountains, 

Who molds a man from a clod. 

The Hartford (Conn.) Times. Elisabeth Newman. 

November 15, 1932- 


Great Moses saw a bush in flame 

And hailed it as divine. 
Jehovah spoke and called his name, 

And God speaks, too, from mine. 

Where merely leaves all summer long 

Had meekly cloaked its boughs 
Are brilliant wings that need no song 

To make the soul arouse. 

The Hartford (Conn.) Times. Ralph Cheyney. 

"The Poets' Corner," November 15, 1932. 


Oh, velvet slippered sea with salty tread, 

That beats upon the white fantastic sands ; 
Whose face to stubborn winter has not bled, 

Nor felt the crinkled frost of temperate lands. 
Oh thou, whose only books have been the moon, 

Dark headed palms, gold warmth, and brittle shells, 
The flash of silver scales in blue lagoon, 

Where elfin sea weeds swing like little bells. 

A peace is here that never dies, I know ; 

So wrought of Love's conceiving, and the breath 
Spun out of Beauty. Never more will blow 

The stark Atlantic winds in leaden death 
Against my heart with gloomy, chilly plea, 
For now I kneel before another sea. 

The Honolulu Star-Bulletin. Charlotte Baldwin. 

February 27, 1932. 



Along the trails of wonder my heart is roaming still, 
Bonds of frailest magic twine me close to lilting rill ; 
Where the silver shadows tumble my eager feet go by, 
Beneath the bridge at sunset fleeting fancies dance and lie. 

The trails are bonnie, bonnie, stretching through the 

heather bloom, 
The mist creeps up encroaching, and, above, the tawny 

moon ; 
The curlew's cry is haunting on the blood-red vacant 

Fairy strains of music fall with strange, enticing lure. 

Oh, all the trails are bonnie, by forest or by stream, 
And out upon the billows where the silvering shadows 


Oh, trails of sweetest memories sparking with delight, 
God grant us happy landings as shadows merge in to the 


The Honolulu Star-Bulletin. George McKinlay* 

"Down to Cases" May 19, 1932. 


Yuan-a-me embroiders robes 

Robes of the Fire Bird 

And the Fang Shen turtles. 

Peach blossoms flutter about her 

Like pink butterflies 

Pattering shadows upon her knees. 

One small petal has dropped upon her breast. 

Her hands are five-petalled stars threading sunbeams, 

Her ears, the pearl-white of dew-drops, 

Her eyebrows, very young moons. 

Yuan-a-me sits weaving, 

Threading jasper 

Into shadowy brocades, 

Into twisted branches 

That grow sweeter under her touch. 

Her needle flashes 

Splintering emerald 

Into dusters of pines 

That open and throw shadows, 

That criss-cross into moss, soaked in dew. 

The Honolulu Star-Bulletin, George Scott Gleason. 



(Baby Charles Augustus Lindbergh.) 

And now, in truth, you are the nation's child 
The barren claim you for their very own, 
And aged women with their offspring flown, 

Your pictured face their lonely hours beguiled. 

Though grief, at first, cannot be reconciled, 
And brave hearts smile to stifle sob and moan, 
But crime, at last, will topple from its throne, 

For beauty lives though ravaged and defiled. 

Though fiends have wrought their fury on your form, 
Your spirit like a golden dream will stay, 

And like the sun that follows after storm 
Lend radiance and glory to the day, 

And clothed in light it seems our eyes discern 

Eternal childhood rising from your urn. 

The Indianapolis (Ind.) Star. Margaret E. Bruner. 

May 22, 1932. 


The thrush is here again; 

From the top of the tallest tree 

Cascades a silvery rain ; 

And through fast-greening aisles 

Where twilight, sun-splashed, smiles 

Flows crystal melody 

O'erbrimmed with ecstasy ; 

Joy's improvised fanfare; 

Phrases of adoration; 

Rapture flung on the air 

In liquid pearls 

And fluted whorls ; 

Mystical meditation; 

Riot of bloom 

Woven on a lyric loom 


Reborn in hearts of men: 

The thrush is here again ! 

The Kansas City (Mo.) Star. Eleanor M. Denny. 



I'm tired of things and of places, 

And even more tired of dreams. 
I wish I might lie on earth's bosom 

And bask in her tranquil sunbeams. 
Then close weary eyes, not in sleeping 

Nor thinking, but lying quite still. 
Just hearing Earth's gentlest murmur 

And feeling Life's tiniest thrill. 
Forgetting the toil and the heartache 

The struggle to keep with the crowd, 
And even forgetting my loved ones, 

I'd make of the shadows a shroud. 
Then hearing the pulse that was beating, 

In every wee bit of the sod 
Be soothed and contented forever, 

At rest with my soul and my God. 

The Indianapolis (Ind.) Star. Ina Draper DeFoe. 

August 28, 1932. 


Cinnamon toast and a cup of tea 
I feel like a fairy or Queen Marie 

Sipping this brew from an amber cup, 
Holding the dainty beverage up 

Till the last beige drop has trickled down 
Even the leaves are a golden brown. 

Crunchy and thin is the cinnamon toast, 
The very kind I adore the most . . . 

My fortune ? Madam Zonoba knows . . . 
Rings on her fingers . . . rings on her toes ; 

"A handsome man crosses your path," she said, 
Tossing her gracefully turbaned head ! 

A handsome man I'd have her know, 
Crossed my path twenty years ago . . . 

Cinnamon toast and a cup of tea 
I fed like a fairy or Queen Marie! 

The Kansas City (Mo.) Star. Gene Boardman Hoover. 
October i6> 1932. 



A something in her eyes that out-lives woe 

Denotes her inward peace. A light is shed 

For those who by her quiet faith are led 

To learn that God is all in all. I know 

She walks with Christ each hour. No bitter foe 

Can steal her healing prayer. Her heart is bled 

For troubled ones who come to her for bread 

And turn away, refreshed by love's warm glow. 

When anguished spirit crumples, in despair 

I turn to her, and she with gentle grace 

Into my keeping gives a slender key 

That opens Heaven's door. Then grief and care 

Depart. With quietness and hope I trace 

The tranquil path to peace and harmony. 

The Indianapolis (Ind.) Star. Ina Draper DeFoe. 

My 31, 1932. 


I thank Thee, Lord, for the common day 
Where grief and joy both pass my way. 
Where darkening clouds o'ercast the sky, 
Where bright the sun-god smiles on high ; 
Where high winds howl, loud-mouthed and mad, 
Where breezes soft, blow gently, glad'; 
Where crested waves dash furiously, 
Where, lightly, ripples stir the sea ; 
Where, after darkness of the night, 
Comes rosy-red the morning light. 

Then may I, in my little sphere, 
Diffuse life's smile and shed life's tear, 
Where sweet and bitter I shall find 
In common with all earth's mankind ; 
Where, when fears come, as oft fears will, 
A rising faith bids them be still; 
Where, when the goal so nearly won 
Is lost, the star of hope leads on ; 
Where love at last shall conquer strife, 
I thank Thee, Lord, for part in life. 

The Kansas City (Mo.) Star. Mary Anderson. 

November 2, 1932. 



The lost, forgotten man, bowed down with care, 
Still struggles on beneath the parching sun 
To reach the goal before the day is done, 

But meets with disappointment everywhere 

Until at last he settles in despair. 

Not knowing what to do, nor how to shun 
The base traducers of the Righteous One, 

He turns his face to God in earnest prayer. 

The ear of Him who notes the sparrow's fall 
And numbers all the hairs upon each head 

Will not be deaf to this despairing call, 
Nor will He vex his soul with constant dread, 

But will relieve him of his bitter gall, 
And give him back the right to earn his bread. 

The Kansas City (Mo.) Star. Henry Polk Lowenstein. 
July 26, 1932. 


I walked with Love when Love was young, 

And, O, he had a magic tongue 

That spoke so bravely; promised much; 

And he possessed the Midas 'touch. 

But soon the dross was rubbed and worn, 

The gilded pictures frayed and torn, 

And there remained but tattered things, 

The vague and useless wonderings 

Why many songs are left unsung 

And Love is crude when Love is young. 

I walked with Love as Love grew old 

And thought to find him dull and cold. 

Instead, he had a gentle air 

And many simple gifts to share. 

His smile was like a calm caress 

That soothed away my loneliness. 

He mended every broken dream ; 

Though patched and scarred, he made them seem 

More beautiful than Youth foretold, 

And Love was kind as Love grew old. 

The Los Angeles (Calif.) Saturday Night. 

Eugenia T. Finn. 



I never knew a time, seems to me, 
When it took so much philosophy 
To get along, 

I never knew a time, it's my guess, 
For a greater need of happiness 
A prayer, a song. 

I lift my heart with joy, may the call 
For a greater goodness come to all 
To right the wrong. 

The greater need is now, light and good, 
And hands all around in brotherhood 
My prayer, my song! 

The La Grange (hid.) Standard. Schuyler C, Spero. 


Mangy and gaunt he roamed from place to place, 

His fiery eyes alert, all things his foe; 

Forsaken, battle-scarred, he took life's blow, 
Groping for sustenance, a scent to trace. 
One day I saw his meager, haunted face 

Peer from an old abandoned house set low ; 

I saw him pounce where clumps of grasses grow, 
Striking a lizard with a panther's grace. 

And then he found my door ; I tossed him bread ; 
Now sleek he grows but with a heart untamed, 
Ever evading hands that would be kind . . . 

Somewhere he found that hands were things to dread. 
Lurking in alleys, Alley Tom unshamed, 
Keeps dark suspicion in his kitten mind. 

The Lake Worth (Fla.) Herald. Ruby Pearl Patterson. 
September 16, 1932. 


A green field lying 
Like a soft velvet carpet, 
Under bright spring skies, 
Sprinkled with yellow light, 
Drops of crystallized sunshine. 

The Nevada State Journal. Gertrude Grymes Smith. 

"Poetic Nevadans" July 18, 1932. 


great tree stands alone on yonder nill, 

out-stretched arms that reach for sun and rain., 
Defying all the, wads that beat in vain 
To break or bend iKe. stubborn, monarch's will. 
Each year trie roots bore deeper m the earth, 
fooldinq trns old tree more firmly 
lOkiU Fevered, grasses feel a closer ktri 
To clappmq leaves, eacK year new birbk 
Siaqs to trie God. of all in nature 5009 
^tx/e see Him in iKis livinq monument, 
That sways its graceful body-.atill unbent 
By wind or tempest Ibrouqh. tbe years Aolonq. 
Days seem rieavi) wilk Iheiir wiadi aad &cars 
But trees qrow slroaq while reaching for the shirs. 

ln /6/fe. 

The Kansas City (Mo.) Star. 
April 24, 1932. 

Belle Van Natta. 


I will not harbor hate within 
My heart, 

His Judas ways I know, 
And though he seems to come as friend, 

He is a cunning foe. 

Admit him and he builds a wall 
That shuts 

You from truth's sky of blue ; 
A wall that winds will shake until 

It falls and crushes you. 

The Middleton (N. Y.) Herald. John Richard Moreland 


When friends say, "Oh, how well you look, 

You're growing younger every day. 
And did you walk from your own home, 

That long, long way?" 
Be not too pleased when this you're told. 
It means they think you're growing old. 
When friends say, "Oh, you're wonderful, 

So many things you do, 
You always take the view of youth, 

Your mind so open, too." 
Just keep your head when this you're told, 
It means they know you're growing old. 

The Mill Valley (Calif.) Record. Margo. 

September p, 1932. 


No fragrant flower ever grows 

Along the streets I pass, 
Grey stones forbid the crimson rose 

And green of blowing grass. 

Yet beauty's song my heart can sing 
When autumn winds are high, 

For me one gold flower tinging 
The pampas of the sky. 

The Montclair (N. J.) Times. J. Horace Losh. 

September 27, 1932. 



To see the mist on the mountain, 
The mist that comes from the sea ! 

To know the joy of sunrise ! 
Lord, Thou art kind to me. 

To walk again in the meadow, 
To press the grass with my feet, 

To rest beneath the oak tree, 
And the bright waters greet ! 

To watch the light of sunset 

On the lips of the wild flowers fall, 

After the stress of noonday 
To feel the peace of it all ! 

To sing in the quiet Starlight 

An old time melody, 
I know that life abundant 

Is given unto me! 

The Mill Valley (Calif.) Record. Joan Woodward. 

March II, 1932. 


Outside my kitchen window 
Stands a madrona tree, 
Covered with crimson berries, 
A gorgeous sight to see. 

But now have come the robins, 

The plump, red-breasted robins, 

They are eating every berry 

From my madrona tree. 
You are welcome, busy robins 
To the madrona tree. 
For you it spreads a needful feast, 
Its beauty feasted me. 

So eat away, plump robins. 

When you flit among the branches 

More beautiful than ever 

Seems my madrona tree. 

The Mill Valley (Calif.) Record. Margo, 

January 8, 1932. 




The whip shot out 
Across the back 
Of the mule team 
Straining upward. 


Wheels rut and grind 
The sun burnt streak 
Of dusty road, 
Carcass lined. 

Sweep ! 

Gaunt as a wolf, 
With rumblings deep 
The far flung herd 
Close crop the trail. 


Cattle and men 
Night vigils keep, 
Under the stars, 
Dreaming of home. 

The Muskogee (Okla.) Phoenix. Cora Case Porter. 


So fair, so cool, by a quiet pool 

A tender lily grew ; 
The sun caressed her snowy cheek, 

No other love she knew. 

So free, so gay, at the dose of day, 

A gypsy breeze drew near, 
He told his love so fervently, 

The lily stooped to hear. 

So swift, so light, on the veil of night, 

The moon delayed a breath, 
And dropped a star to mark the spot 

"The Ecstasy of Death!" 

The Nevada State Journal. Bertha Raffetto. 

"Poetic Nevadans" September 28, 1932. 



Life is like a see-saw 

Of ups and downs, 
The victors are the vanquished, 

The vanquished glean renowns. 

Always ships that skim the skies 

Descend to earth again; 
The rain falls in the ocean 

Then turns again to rain. 

All rivers have an outbound course 

And end up at the sea ; 
Yet seas are never over-full 

That feed the parched lea. 

And so the love of man bestowed 

Upon the hungry heart, 
Returns in many forms to bless 

Bestowers for their part. 

The Mill Vdley (Calif.) Record. Ruby MacLeod Taylor. 
October 21, 1932. 


Yah hoo ! Sammy, Skinny and Sue, 

The circus has dropped into town, 
With zebras and camels and elephants too ! 

And "Curley," the funny-faced clown. 

"The Pageant of Gold" is right from old Spain, 

The biggest and best ever seen ; 
Ubangis, with lips like ducks in the rain, 

And "Alex," the wire-tripper lean. 

The "Big Top" is swaying just like a balloon, 

And pulling away at her stakes ; 
The calliope chortles a dear, old sweet tune, 

Gee . . . what a swell racket it makes. 

Come on kids, get going, it's out by the track, 
Who cares about school or the eats, 

There's hot dogs and peanuts, right in a sack, 
Hurry up ... let's grab the good seats ; 

The Nevada State Journal. Bertha Raffetto. 

"Poetic Nevadans." 



A flashing burnish of green and gold 
At the flowering maple's cup ; 
A humming note, the ruby-throat 
Has come for its noon-day sup. 
A quick fillip, a dart and dip 
For a sip of nectared sun, 
The humming bird's bill has taken 
It's fill- 
Lone sways the abutilon. 

The Mill Volley (Calif.) Record. Addie M. Proctor. 
June 24, 1932. 


A path around my garden-shrine 

How like a ribbon sash is laid ; 
Where pebbles polk-a-dot design 

And grassy-hair-like fringe has made 
The shadows stripe like folds between; 

Tho ever in the morning sun 
It glows a moire satin sheen 

In evening 'tis a velvet one; 
And how I love to bare my feet 

To kick the tiny stones apart; 
O, little path so slick and neat, 

You've tied a bow around my heart ! 

The Nevada State Journal. Adele D'Orsay. 

"Poetic Nevadans" Aug. 6, 1932. 


Black and white and grey 

Latticed all across, 
Pain of a great joy, 

Peace of utter loss 
That's looking back, 

Now the other way 
What lies ahead? 

Black and white and grey. 

The Nevada State Journal. Dorothy Cruikshank. 

ct Poetic Nevadans" June 4, 



In the roving life of a miner's wife 

I snatch what I may of content 
Where the gold lead gleams in the white quartz seams 

The most of my life is spent. 

We follow the ledge on the desert's edge, 

On finding a fortune bent ; 
At the timber line beneath the pine 

We often pitch our tent. 

Sometimes I dream by a mountain stream 

Of a place to settle down, 
To know again contacts with men 

In some far-distant town. 

But I can speak to a mountain peak, 

Am comrade of the breeze; 
I know every star in the heavens afar . . . 

I'm friend of the rocks and trees. 

So why should I sigh if the world goes by ... 

I feel that it was meant 
That I find in my heart in my world apart 

A measure of deep content. 

The Nevada State Journal. Harriet Mills McKay. 

"Poetic Nevadans" July 4, 1932. 


I never need be jealous of any glancing 
Toward subtle, languorous women you may meet, 

Our humblest moment glows with more romancing, 
Our quietest hour has a tang more sweet. 

I am not robed in soft, cascading laces, 

No glamourous perfume lingers through my hair, 

My hands are schooled to work in humble places 
With little time to frill the clothes I wear. 

Yet we have moments lustrous as a river 
That stirs to music with silver, lapping tongue 

When each becomes the one transcendent giver, 
The litany to which our lives are sung. 

The New York Sun. Lucia Trent. 



Life is meaningless to me 

Since you are gone ; 
Days and nights are all the same 

There is no dawn. 

I think of things we did in June, 

Of places where we went last week 

And I can't put myself in tune 
With things that are. It's you I seek. 

Before life meant long days with you 

And moonlight nights, far from the crowd, 

But now, though life goes on, 'tis true, 
I might as well disport my shroud. 

Life is like that, a dull reprint; 

We never know the fate in store 
But if I'd only had some hint 

Of losing you I'd loved you more. 

The Nevada State Journal. B. Jackson. 

"Poetic Nevadans," September 28, 


Don't be clever, 
Just be kind, 
Heart's forever 
More than mind. 
Just be friendly, 
Don't be smart, 
Mind's forever 
Less than heart. 

The New Canaan (Conn.) Advertiser. 

October 20, 1932. Isabel Fiske Conant. 


He sang of golden streets beside a jasper sea, 
Of bays that flourished by some heavenly wall ; 

Then he went home and felled a noble linden tree 
Because it littered so the lawn in fall. 

The New York American. Anne M. Robbins. 

October 3, 1932. 



The years are many since I placed you there 
Above the mantel. Through dark days and fair 
I have looked up into your patient face 
Sure of the welcome I could always trace, 
Sure of the strength wherewith to meet the day, 
Sure of the smile wherewith to light the grey. 
You never failed me. When life seemed to be 
A thing of doubt, of hopeless mystery, 
A tangle which the fingers of my mind 
Could not unravel, grasp, wherewith to wind, 
One glance, and lo ! the ball stood wound and straight, 
And I, no more the tool of chance and fate, 
Had caught a glimpse of One enthroned on high 
Who marks the sparrows even when they die. 
And, when my cup was brimming full with cheer, 
It was your look that made the wine so clear, 
Your faith, your hope, your depth of charity, 
That gave its flavor such a rarity. 
Because of this you daily give my soul 
I go; my way in peace, nor fear the whole, 
Nor life, nor death, nor aught of destiny, 
Shall take your love, 0, mother mine, from me. 

The Newark (N. J.) News. Erene Angleman. 

May 7, 1932. 


Now comes the season when we pause to pay 
Our reverence and homage to the dead, 
But do not grieve as one uncomforted 

To mar the hallowed spirit of the day; 

And as we kneel to place each flower-spray 
Breathing the perfume that their petals shed, 
Speak not of death, but rather in its stead 

Think of them resting where no pain holds sway. 

We do not know perhaps from some far land 
They may be looking kindly on the earth ; 

I think they try to make us understand 
They prize the blooms as gifts of sterling worth, 

And so it seems that by this simple act 

We clasp their hands and keep a sacred pact. 

The Newcastle (Ind.) News-Republican. 

May 26, 1932. Margaret E. Bruner. 



I shall perhaps forget 

Today's bright glow 

When darkness comes. I know 

There may be things I shall regret ; 

But there will be so much 

To cherish through the coming years ; 

The bond of laughter; fellowship of tears. 

I shall recall the touch 
Of your dear hands ; 
Your ready kiss ; 
Though I shall miss 
The tempting strands 
Of loosened hair. 

Each little word of yours has been a part 
Of an imagined chain around my heart. 

How could I share 

The joyousness of life with you 

And then forget? 

And yet ... 

Death may subdue 

All things (for Death is strong) 

And love may be forgotten. Who can tell? 

But, surely, not forever! Soon the spell 

Of your brave song 

Will capture me, 

And I shall hear again 

The voice of love, and then 

Remember you throughout eternity. 

The New York Journal. Eugenia T. Finn. 

February 6, 1932. 


O robin's song, 

Across the dusk you trail old dreams, 

O robin's song, 

Like wisps of smoke they float along 

Borne on your melody ; it seems 

From mem'ry's altar, incense streams, 

O robin's song. 

The Pasadena (Calif.) Post. Sarah R. Stansberry. 

"Verse Section of the Writers 9 Club of Pasadena" 



He left me parked near a hydrant 

And double-parked as well 
"What shall I say to the traffic cop 

If he comes? What shall I tell?" 

My old friend turned and said to me, 

"Haven't you any pride? 
Say the fellow who picked you up 

Had to walk home from the ride!" 

The New York Sun. Helen Maring. 

March 12, 1932. 


I sometimes say to my rebelling heart, 
"What matters it that now my cup is drained, 
That Life has crushed me, left me only pained 
Remembrance broken dreams that burn and smart; 
What matter if the flames that glow and dart 
From love-lit altar fires have fluttered, waned 
And in their stead, like somber ghosts arraigned, 
Stand funeral tapers, row on row apart?" 

Ah, once, for one brief moment, love was mine, 
And crowded into just a few short years 
Such depths of love's desire, impassioned bliss. 
That now my soul is drunk on red, red wine 
That you have left to beautify my tears, 
And I shall feel forever just one kiss. 

The New York Sun. Grace Hackel Baker. 

March 28, 1932. 


Across the city's snowy roofs 
A thin blue dark begins to creep ; 
And, blinking like a little child, 
A star wakes from its day of sleep. 

If these were lanes instead of streets, 
I know what stillness there would be ; 
But dusk's most exquisite of gifts 
Is brought to cities uselessly. 

The New York Times. Adelaide Love. 

February 8, 1932. 

' 75 


Come on, now, and don't you be raising objections, 
Nor don't you be asking how long you shall stay ; 

The hand-painted arrows from sixteen directions 
Why should they be there but to show you the way ? 

Your room is all ready, with things in their places 
And "Welcome !" in purple and gold on the mat ; 

The children are scrubbing their hands and their faces 
And tying a bow to the neck of the cat. 

The puppy is doing the best that he's able 

To wag off his tail with a thump and a swish ; 

There's stuff in the cupboard and smokes on the table, 
And nothing to do but whatever you wish. 

Your coming will bring us the joy of the dawning, 
Where all was the darkness of midnight before. 

We've laid the red carpet and put up the awning, 
Your name's in electric lights over the door ! 

The New York Times. Arthur Guiterman. 

January 6, 1932. 


As I rode up from Rymouth Town, 
A silver rain came shining down ; 
So bright it ran, so soft it fell, 
It turned a tune, it wove a spell. 
And oh, the rust-red Devon soil 
Whereon my Grandsire spent his toil ; 
And oh, the tears that tinged the mist 
With tints of gold and amethyst! 

For I am but a simple fool, 

And since I was a child at school 

Have dreamed a splendid dream of Devon 

That made of it a sort of heaven. 

And I shall always wonder whether 

It was the rain and sun together, 

Or the glad weeping of my eyes 

That set a rainbow in the skies 

As I rode up from Plymouth Town 

Through the bright shower that murmured down. 

The New York Times. Barbara Young. 

October 26, 1932. 



Gently our friendship started, as May rain 
Slips down the darkness to a sleeping earth ; 
So quietly my heart found yours old dearth 

Of fellowship forgot in this new gain. 

Then vibrant notes of dawn came to impart 
Brisk song to days that once lagged silently. 
And no misgiving of the frailty. 

Of all such exquisiteness disturbed my heart. . . . 

Now it is gone ! I know not why, unless, 
In joy of welcoming, my clumsy fingers 
Have crushed this unalloyed delight. There lingers 

A pregnant ghost; its child new wariness! 

The New York Times. Lucile Hargrove Reynolds. 

January 13, 1932. 


How capricious you were! 
Fluttering down on my verdure-clothed garden, 
Shedding white flakes from ethereal wings . . . 
(Your comeliness, methinks, 

Assuaged earth's murmurings.) 
We loved your gay caprices, 
The teasing, whirling, happy kisses 
Which, merrily, you splashed from your full urn 
That we, the grace of your exquisite forms, might learn. 
The beauty of your animated dance 
Held our lingering, deep-impassioned gaze . . . 
Forsooth the spritely, gentle tread of you 
Pausing now and then, with indecision, 
Seemed like some magic theme a vision. 
Every garden-bloom found rest 
On your fair pillow ; 

Succumbing to your wealth of coquetry 
While you, with silvered love-taps 
Veiled each path with sheen and splendor 

Like an aftermath . . . 

An aftermath ... to guide those souls uncertain . . . 
Something potent, crowned with glowing light, 
Many were the hearts who felt your boon 
And wept as I 

Seeing you haste away so soon. 

The Oakland (Calif.) Tribune. Alice E. Bradley. 



On tenantless, wide acreage 

I stand a lone flesh-presence here. 

Beyond this rutted, stubbled reach 

A factory's titan smokestacks rear 

Gaunt height against a thunderous cloud 

Black giants belching smoke and flame. 

Resenting sulphurous breath puffed high, 

The cloud retaliates with fire 

As lightning diagrams the sky. 

Flame above where storm-clouds lower ; 

Flame below where smokestacks tower ; 

One, reinless electricity; 

The other, sire of bridled steam. 

Electricity and steam 

Twin gods of vast industrial power! 

The New York Times. Winnie Lynch Rockett. 

June 25, 


Thimble-berry paths are white with blossoms, 

For-get-me-nots and iris, everywhere ; 
While ferns unfold their fronds, coquetting zephyrs 

Sift wild-flower incense through the balmy air., 

Squirrels frisk and climb before my window, 
And bunnies scamper o'er the swinging bridge, 

Quail call their broods, "Come quick ! come quick ! come 

quickly !" 
As snow-white clouds drift over redwood ridge. 

Waterfalls are crooning tuneful woodnotes, 

The birds are fluting in the tallest trees, 
The gushing river's organ tones are sounding 

As if a master's fingers swept the keys. 

Who would not be in the woods a-Maying, 
In spirit, one with shower, cloud and sun? 

Here, wand'ring footsteps, slowly, idly straying, 
Touch life renewed and only just begun. 

The Oakland (Calif.) Tribune. Bessie L Sloan. 



The fragrance of the lily next your heart 

Ascends like incense rising to your soul ; 

Your docile feet pursue no earthly goal. 
Dear little nun, in sweet commune apart, 
Your flight, celestial, guided by His chart 

Through mystic aisles, takes heavenly wing the whole 

Day long, envoy of love, for Him who stole 
Your virgin heart and chose it from the start, 

After a day well-spent at His behest 

Then basking in His love, content to rest, 
In convent cell all glorified and bright, 
Tomorrow finds you fresh for further flight. 

By grace of your dear Savior, you are blest, 
With pinions lifting you to greater height. 

The Ontario (Calif.) Herald. Marie Tello Phillips. 

"Warp & Woof," November 17, 


Suddenly I know that Fame is naught; 

That all Wealth ever gave, or bought, 

The flattery, the praise, the being sought, 

Even the fleeting beauty, that its gold net caught, 

Is meaningless. My heart is fraught 

With music, by sad Memory wrought, 

That racks my rose-strewn days. Distraught 

I seek the happiness I thought 

By Fame and Power would be brought. 

Looking on these things for which I fought, 
Silver, and gold-encrusted, gem bewrought, 
I see a grave, holding dead Love, that once besought : 
And suddenly I know that Fame is naught. 

The Ontario (Calif.) Herald Ellen M, Carroll. 

"Warp & Woof," November 17, 1932. 


Poppies and daisies and slender wild oats, 
Blooming together in a dull brass bowl 

Are so full of spring you can hear the notes 
Of meadow larks singing on a sun-drenched knoll. 

The Pasadena (Calif.) Post. Ruby Robinson Wise. 

"Verse Section of the Writers' Club of Pasadena" 



We sat beneath the stars and planned the things that we 

would do 

We'd have a little cottage and perhaps a child or two, 
A garden full of roses and a bench beside the wall, 
And, dreaming there, we'd never mind the storms of life 

at all. 

We have a little cottage (with a mortgage almost due), 
We have a hearty youngster and a tiny baby, too ; 
We have a little garden, but instead of roses red 
You will find some golden carrots, or perhaps a cabbage 

Today, it seemed I caught the sun a-laughing out at me, 
At midday, as it danced and pranced and sparkled in its 


A spider had a web across that bench beside the wall ! 
We had been so very busy it was scarcely used at all! 

The Ontario (Calif.) Herald. Hazel Reese Collins. 

"Warp and Woof" Nov. 17, 1932. 


Like an evil monster the dredger grimly stands 
Outlined in rambling silhouette not far away; 

With greedy iron jaws and cruel clammy hands, 
The pregnant breast of Mother Earth his dying P rev - 

An ancient river's course he follows hungrily, 
And valley fair as ever bloomed on either side. 

A quiet Arcadian land once tilled so tenderly 
Is now a trail of desolation parched and dried. 

All day and night he stands with feverish blazing eyes 
In muddy slime and craunches with an ominous roar, 

Then spews forth hills of barren waste in giant size 
An awful toll for one tidbit of yellow ore. 

Anathema on him who for eternity 

In greed destroys an empyrean countryside 

Dead to the miracle of Earth's fecundity, 
Just orging ever on, in tragic matricide. 

The Oakland (Calif.) Tribune. Jennie Locke Hazelquist. 
February 6, 1932. 



The earth smells dank and new and clean, 
Upon the grass so freshly green, 
The fallen leaves make yellow beds. 
The Pepper trees with ferny boughs 
Are bending low, weighed down with rain. 
Drizzling, drizzling rain. 

The jewel-drops on every leaf 

Glint and gleam in Autumn's flow, 

And Date-palms stand with arms outstretched, 

Draped in brown fruits and leaves of green. 

Holding rain-drops in their woody cups, 

They lift their stately heads to God, 

And drink ambrosia, sweet, divine. 

The south-winds blow and wave the palms, 
Kiss poppies growing by the path, 
Then laughing, hurry on their way. 
Glimpsing a rosy streak of sun 
Belting the mountain's snowy crest, 
The Storm-maids vanish in a mist, 
And yonder south, a rainbow glows 
Proclaims o'er leagues of sky, a golden day, 
And brings new hope to all mankind. 
Beyond the storm, the calm, the sun, 
Love smiles at me. 

The Oakland (Calif.) Tribune. Stella Flowers Hastings. 
"The Other Fellow." 


I shall find solace in singing, I know ; 

Placing my little loves all in a row, 

Singing them blithely forth, one after one, 

But what of the night-time, when singing is done? 

I shall lie quietly then, seeking sleep, 

When that I have buried, so still and so deep, 

Shall waken to ask me why it is unsung? 

With tears I must answer, since Grief has no tongue. 

The Oakland (Calif.) Tribune. Eve Eraser. 

"The Other Fellow," August 15, 1932. 


(In Memory of Joyce Kilmer) 

Because you had to go while life was young 

With half your loveliest, fairest songs unsung 

Because death called to you across the sea 

Until your answering voice came fearlessly, 

It is for us to say with steady heart 

That not again shall youth play such a part! 

Because of that white cross that marks your place, 

Who might so well have lived and won life's race, 

Because of those who carry on alone 

Who loved you and who held you for their own 

It is for us to say to unborn men 

The torch of war shall never flame again ! 

The Oakland (Calif.) Tribune. Dorothy Tyrrel. 

May 28, 1932. 


I've been searching through the debris of dreams 
In vain for a cherished illusion. 
But the theme is gone and the promise sweet 
Is lost in a maze of confusion. 

There are dreams of fame in the treasured heap 
But somehow their glamor has faded. 
And the dreams of wealth seem such worthless hopes 
Compared with the joys that life traded. 

I find futile dreams, and find dreams fulfilled, 
I count all of them on my fingers, 
But I search in vain for the dreams of you 
For only their memory lingers. 

The Oakland, (Calif.) Tribune. Elna Forsell Pawson. 
May 8, 1932. 


Troubles are like thunderclouds 

Quite black when far away ; 
But when they spread out overhead 

They soften into gray. 

The Oakland (Calif.) Tribune. Amy Bower. 





l< ^ 


HO paints the dead against a living f>kv 
Athens or Ronip > Islam or old Cathay 
l fmrt Ins tw-ie is duller than his eye. 

Though Egvpt haunt* hr tombs, *till loath to die, 
Mnu muftt forget. He throws his brush away 
Who paints the dead against & living sky. 

Though he be certain that his art is high, 
Bt doubly sure, for all lie plead or pray- 
He'll find his taste is duller than his eye. 

For who needs Rome tonight? And who would cry 
For Helen, dead with Troy? He gains no py 
Who paints the dead against a living sky. 

Sadness may flow; Beauty, herself, may lie 
Naked against his knee. Yet day by day 
He'll find his taste is duller than hfs eye. 

The world knows tears, yet cares not how or why 
Sorrow still lives, yet mute is her array. 
"Who paints the dead ayain^t a living sky 
He'll find his taste i* duller tliun his eye. 

Lowx W. WKXM. 

The Kansas City (Mo.) Star. 
January 17, 1932. 


Lowe W* Wren. 


Feeble mid-morning sunlight 
On a treeless, barren country ; 
Flat stretches of rocky soil 
Veined with muddy stream beds. 

Rocky foothills plastered at intervals 
With mud-daubed dug-outs. 

Descending haze and the gray threat of rain, 

Concealing tops of hills, 

Roofing drear valleys crossed by trails. 

Tall white-robed figures stalking single-file 

Along the paths endlessly stalking; 

Stalking one by one out of the gray distance 

Past the dismal round humps of a burial ground. 

Stalking one by one near at hand 

Through drab villages of mud huts, 

Tall yellow men in flowing white gowns 

Men with top-knots tucked under 

Toy stove-pipe hats of black horsehair. 

A line of flapping scarecrow figures 

Silhouetted against the sky, 

Stalking away atop a rocky ridge. 

Restlessly, weirdly, endlessly stalking, 
The tall, dissatisfied men of Korea. 

The Oakland (Calif.) Tribune. Annie M. Johnston. 

March 1 


When I can give and not expect 
One thing, but be content with just 
The pleasure gained in doing good 
I shall have reached a safe retreat. 

I long to rise upon that plane 
To heights where self is left below, 
Think only that I did my part . 
And wait for God to compensate. 

The Oakland Tribune. Delia Vaughn. 



And there was one 

Who brought Time's Priceless gifts 

Laughter memories 

E'en tinged a bit with pain 

But ravishingly tender 

Clothed thus in Spring's sweet garment. 

But stay your haste 

Seek me not to yield and yield and yield. 

Canst leave me veiled one hour? 

Too soon it needs must be 

That I lay bare the reality of Love and Life 

And place the stakes 

To the lotteries' fitful judgment. 

The Oakland (Calif.) Tribune. Olga Wahlstein Leino. 
June 4, 1932. 


I am stooped 

By the brook 

Beneath a sycamore, 

A tall, black shadow 

Rushing upwards into the night sky 

And sprawled out 

At the top 

Into black, crooked, bare arms, 

That stand against 

The star-spattered heavens 


This shadow tree 

Points straight 

Into the heights of the Milky Way, 

Whose myriad stars, with the others of the sky, 

Fall down to the hill lines 

Behind the penciled wood 

In front of me, 

Like a furious flurry 

Of cold snow crystals 

Blowing tumultuously 

Down the steep, blade slant, 



I am a naked savage, 

Under my clothes, 

Crouched here 

By the trickling stream, 

In the presence of these limitless 

Sky extensions; 

I am as primitive 

And as unclothed as they. 

I am a barbarian 

Hazardously loose 

In this universe, I see. 

This spectacle 

Looking back at me 

Seeks to tell me many things : 

Of my origin, 

Of my destiny, 

Proclaims who I am ... 

Could I but understand 

The starry eloquence. 

I may only look out there 

And wonder .... 

The Oakland (Md.) Mountain Democrat. 

March 10, 1932. William Sheppard Sparks. 


There's a friendly gesture in the leafy boughs 
Where whispering breezes linger long to play, 

Glad voices echo through the forest aisles 
The summer caravan is on its way ! 

The sleeping camp fires of the yesteryear 
With gleaming embers dance at close of day, 

And forest creatures seek their solitude 
The summer caravan is on its way ! 

There's a lilting gladness in the river's voice, 
And music fills the night with accents gay, 

There's a comradeship with stars and flowers 
The summer caravan is on its way! 

From city streets, from towns and fields they come 
A-gypsying where winding roadways stray, 

It seems that all the world is out-of-doors 
The summer caravan is on its way! 

The Oakland (Calif.) Tribune. Nell Griffith Wilson. 
"The Other Fellow," August 12, 1932. 



I do not fear this April's tears, 

For I have seen her smile, 
And well I know her grief and fears 

Will not survive her guile. 

She strews bright flowers at my feet, 

Then startles me with rain. 
Yet patiently I bear the sleet 

To see her smile again. 

I know her grief will slowly fade, 

The violet drinks her tears. 
Warm winds will sweep her queenly glade 

Of sorrow, cold and fears. 

The Philadelphia (Pa.) Bulletin. Paul Leland McConomy. 
April 15, 1932. 


Lord, out upon this lonesome plain, 

Far from the crowded city's roar, 
And all its heartache, greed and stain, 

And selfishness and strife for more 
Out where the sky at dusk is like 

A golden scroll, it is so fair, 
I let him nibble short grass Mike 

While I uplift a simple prayer. 

I know I'm awkwardness itself 

When I flop down upon my knees 
In this great open church that pelf 

Did not erect for human pleas. 
I'm not a Moody, Sankey, I 

Have never seen cathedral spires, 
But, Lord of heaven, pass that by 

And but consider my desires. 

I ask to be a comrade, pal 

To every man that rides the trail, 
And if by chance he is a gal, 

Instead of some scrub-whiskered male, 
Well, God Almighty, may I show 

A little more politeness, care 
Not such as marks the parlor beau 

But marks a real man hear my prayer ! 


Make me a friend to every dog 

Unfed and shackless in these parts, 
For every disowned broncho jog 

My kindly feelings they have hearts. 
I want to be as square as Him 

Who hung upon that painful cross. 
I'm shy on prayer words, sing no hymn, 

But you know me for you're the Boss. 

The Omaha (Nebr.) World-Herald. Will Chamberlain. 


As a flower in the garden, 

Bending toward the sun, 
Unfolds its tiny petals 

One by one by one. 

So Faith expands its beauty 

Until at last it grows 
Into Life's lasting flower, 

The heart's fair, perfect rose. 

The Philadelphia (Pa.) Bulletin. Rebecca Helman. 

August 11, 1932. 


The world is smiling at me today, 
The world is smiling at me; 
Its voices say, "Come out and play 
And live the prime of song and rhyme." 
Oh, Spring is romancing, I see. 

This fresh-lit world has a heavenly swing; 
It is joy this heaven to know 
When bounding Spring cannot help but sing ; 
It thrills the air love blossoms there 
A touch of the sweet long ago! 

The world is living, as then, a-glow; 
The world is living as then ; 
My cares may go, I'll join the show ; 
The old somehow is young just now 
Oh, love whispers to me again ! 

The Piedmonter. Schuyler C. Spero. 

April 21, 1932. 



Hope and joy are singing 

When the larkspur blows, 
And a gold moth winging 

Tips a crimson rose. 

When the blue anchusa 

Wandering astray, 
Hears a bee-hung 1 fuchsia 

Tinkle time away. 

Summer joys are fickle, 

But brave hope will sing 
Though an autumn sickle 

Finds scant harvesting. 

The Philadelphia (Pa.) Bulletin. Anne M. Robinson. 
November 15, 1932. 


Bobolinks, reedbirds in the fen, 
Grubbing food from the salt morass ; 
With the incoming sea's access, 
Round its pools does the bittern reign 

With his strangely booming cry. 
Then we came again to the strand, 
Back to the sea from marsh and pool, 
And suddenly, with a rush, ascend 
The jaeger and the! skua gull, 

As fierce as a tiger's eye. 

The slender tern, the fleet-winged tern, 
Skims the combers, rises, dips ; 
Sandpipers fringe, like lace forlorn, 
The surf's uneven hem, their steps 

Like those of- a scuttling child. 
Seamews call; our roof is wings 
Where, white and grey, the gulls are circling. 
Feathers, cries, and the sea's harangues 
Calm to glory of sunwest darkling, 

And ebb and the night are mild. 

The Paterson (N. J*) Morning Call Benjamin Musser. 



He had known something of the winds that sweep 

Across the prairies and must shape a man, 

For consecration, when the faith is deep 

And one accepts the wisdom of God's plan. 

He looked above and over and beyond 

The things that most men gloat upon while here. 

His love stretched out to touch a heart life wronged 

And left it peace and hope and joy to cheer. 

His was the shaping of a Christian life, 

Gaged by commandments struck upon the stone; 

He had the strength to conquer in the strife 

And claim a life eternal for his own. 

He did not question why or reasons ask, 

But gave himself completely to this task. 

The Philadelphia (Pa.) Inquirer. Charles Bancroft. 


Now, perched upon a gnarled banyan bough 
Whose polished leaves afford a safe retreat, 

The mocking bird's entranced ears endow, 
With fluted melodies, all passing sweet. 

Incarnadined aflame the towering clouds 
The sun adorns, ere passing from our sight ; 

Fantastic, weird, their majesty enshrouds 

The stars, bright lanterns in the purple night. 

From nature's greenwood temple there ascends 
The fragrant incense of the trumpet vine, 

And with the jasmine sweet its perfume blends 
To fill our raptured souls with thoughts' divine. 

Cool Luna, newly risen, a silvery path 
Hath laid, from far horizon to the shore, 

The noonday heat gives place to aftermath 
As Neptune's cooling breath is felt once more. 

Thus comes the night. I ask but one thing more 
To add to its delights this is my prayer, 

No greater gift for me could be in store 
Than just your presence, all these joys to share. 

The Palm Beach (Fla.) Times. S. W. Young. 




The columbines were gypsy folk, 

Wild, free, and gaily dressed 
In Spanish red and yellow. One 

Was handsomer than the rest. 

A gardner bore her down the hill, 
And sought, through cultivation, 

To make her grow more worthy 
Of her new exalted station. 

She held herself erect, nor seemed 

To pine, and no one knew 
Of trmult in her heart, when toward 

Her home land, strong winds blew. 

Her children and their children lived 

Long in the garden-plot 
As tamely as sweet william, phlox, 

Fuchsia, forget-me-not. 

And then one spring, beside the path 

From flower-bed to high 
And rocky places, whence one views 

The gray hills filing by, 

There bloomed a garden columbine! 

Had she believed that scamp, 
The wind, would take her all the way 

Up to the gypsy camp? 

The Pompton Lakes (N. J.) Bulletin. Emma Johnston. 
July 14, 1932. 


The Queen of Autumn comes in gala dress ; 
Its vivid hues her loveliness ; 
With draperies of scarlet, orange, red, 
And crown of purple asters on her head ; 
Announced by silver trumpets clear and shrill, 
Her pageantry transforms each vale and hill, 
With troop of laughing helpers in her train, 
She scatters luscious fruits and golden grain, 
In cloistered woodland drifts the rustling leaves ; 
At nightfall with her loom the hoar frost weaves. 

The Pasadena (Calif.) Pwt. Anna Maria Wirth. 

"Verse Section of the Writers' Club of Pasadena" 



The pioneer, what might she tell, 
She who has honored woman's sphere, 
Through cruel hardships that befell 
The pioneer? 

A vision bade her persevere, 
And patiently all fear dispel ; 
It gave her courage of a seer. 
In sacrifice her deeds excel ; 
True faith and love she held most dear ; 
Oh, what she could was done so well 
The pioneer. 

The Pasadena (Calif.) Post. Kate K. Church. 

"Verse Section of the Writers' Club of Pasadena" 


Of all the dreams that embroider our life 

As the faces of flowers embroider a wood, 
The loveliest dreams were the ones that were rife 

Where you as the rarest of wild flowers stood 
A spot where the earth was so rich and so moist 

It teemed with the blossoms of summer and spring. 
They curtsied as one, like a court that rejoiced 

To render to you all the pomp of a king. 

The Palm Beach (Fla.) Times. Mary Owen Lewis. 

"Talespins" September 9, 1932. 


He did not ask for riches, 

To play a pompous part; 
But humbly prayed to have 

An understanding heart. 
God heard his meek petition 

And gave him wisdom rare; 
All other things he added 

Im which to richly share. 

The Palm Beach (Fla.) Times. Grenville Kleiser. 

"Tdespins" June 14, 1932. 



The moonlight fell softly o'er woodland and dale ; 
The mist from the river, a silvery veil, 
Hung low on the hillside ; and ever there rose 
A mystical murmur, as music that flows 

And ebbs with the tide in the land of our dreams. 

On the brow of the hill as I wandered along, 
Alone in my sorrow, a burden of song 
Stole into the murmur and spoke to my soul, 
Spoke softly and sweetly as echoes that roll 
On wings of the wind from far-away streams. 

The pale moon descended, the stars fled away, 
The vision departed at dawn of the day. 
The music still lingers ; I ever can hear 
Its mystical murmur fall faint on my ear, 
And thus shall it sing to my soul evermore. 

The Pasadena (Calif.) Past. A. W. Macy. 

"Verse Section of the Writers 1 Club of Pasadena!' 


Ah, could ye know the peddler man, his wares a goodly 

That balanced on a forked stick, and hanging down his 


And had ye seen the peddler man come swinging up the 

His courage and his faith along, to spice his greeting gay ! 

And might ye heard the peddler man, as bundle he 

"The finest linene ma'am" you'd think the looms by him 


Who could resist the peddler man? No lady so obtuse; 
The Blarney Stone had shown him how his compliments 
to loose. 

To each he gave, beside his jokes, fair bargains to entice, 
"Ye'll find not such in Dublin town, so purty, cheap and 


Whence came the canny peddler man, and why his service 

A pilgrim faring forth with joy, from dawn to setting 


Ah, when ye lost the peddler man, ye lost a man of parts ! 
He left us all fine memories, and aches down in our 

The peddler man! That Irishman, he never more will 

No other body can entreat such blessings on us all ; 

'Twould help me poor old eyes to see, his swinging walk 

once more, 
I'd like to hear him on me porch, and knocking at me 


The Pasadena (Calif.) Post. Kate K. Church. 

"Verse Section of the Writers' Club of Pasadena." 


There are two things I would not be without 
A garden and a child. For both can give 
To the sad spirit and the burdened heart 
Immeasurable comfort, joy and peace. 
A garden and a child ! I know that each 
Is filled with God. The eyes of innocence 
Regard me from both child and flowering stem ; 
Their trusting gaze gives to my inmost soul 
A benediction. Both have need of me, 
And these my hands that minister are blest. 

A little child asleep, with dewy lips 

And budding breast, whose petal cheeks are cool 

And fragrant as the violet, can turn 

The meanest hovel into something filled 

With angel light. So may a single flower, 

Blooming in dust beside the heedless wheels, 

Spread heaven along the sordid thoroughfare. 

A garden and a child ! I give my thanks 

For these two things I would not be without 

A dreaming garden and a sleeping child. 

The Salt Lake Tribune. Maud Chegwidden. 

March 13, 1932. 



Drums are beating, symbols beating, 

Violin and small tabor, 
Cellos beating, all is beating, 

Jazz upon the ball-room floor. 

Waiters warming, sweat is forming, 

Wilted shirts that collars wore, 
Couples pushing, couples backing, 

Couples tangled more and more. 

Boys are necking, maidens cheeking, 

Never ceasing din and roar, 
Bodies swaying, mothers praying, 

Pleasure meant and nothing more. 

The Palm Beach (Fla.) Times. John Harsen Rhoades. 


The fragrance is the soul of the flower 
Speaking to you and to me ; 
Giving birth to a sense of beauty 
Through unconscious sympathy. 

The spirit of the pasture dwells 
In the parsley flower and leaf ; 
And in the wheatfields ripening 
The sweet sun-smell of the sheaf. 

The wild rose fragrance cleanest of all 
Exhales the soul of the dew: 
Rivaled only by new mown hay, 
Or the quiet scent of the rue. 

The wallflower dressed so soberly 
Is much like a Mennonite maid ; 
The earthy odor of maidenhair 
Presents an image of shade. 

The mignonette is singing softly 
To itself like a tiny joy; 
The lilac gives its heart in fragrance, 
Delightful sweets without alloy. 


The scent of the grass pink is subtle 
As music; and the daintiest smells 
Of flowers are apple blossoms, limes, 
Violets and canterbury-bells. 

Sweet peas are the breath of fairies 
Delicately scenting the air ; 
And the sophisticated hyacinth's 
Odor has a naughty flair. 

Jasmine fragrance is like something 
Belonging to death and the night ; 
Or quiet winds that haunt the dead 
When the moon is full and white. 

As sweet to a gypsy out of prison 
As the smell of the gorse 
Is the fragrance the red rose gives 
When greeting the great god Mors. 

The fragrance is the soul of the flower 
Telling to you and to me 
Each in its name a rare beauty 
And we sense it unconsciously. 

The Pine Cone. Annice Calland. 


You are only a palm tree that swishes 
When fronds let the breezes go through, 

But to me you are beautiful wishes 
That may or may never come true. 

Your figure is gracefully crowned 
To shade us from midsummer heat, 

While at evening your sermons abound 
As the moon shadows shift at our feet. 

You may dance for the play of a child, 
Let him fancy your music is rain, 

But to me your whispering mild 
Just enough for assuaging of pain. 

The Palm Beach (Fla.) Times. Imelda Barbara Dillon. 
"Tdespins" My 5, 1932. 



The sails that we see on the ocean 

Are as white as white can be, 
But there's never a sail in the harbor 

As white as the one at sea. 

And the clouds that crown the mountain 

With gold and purple delight, 
Turn to cold gray mists and vapors 

As we climb the mountain's height. 

Oh, fair and stately the vessel 

That rides afar from the beach. 
And clouds of gold and purple 

Are clouds we never can reach. 

Oh, Distance, you are enchantress 

Who charms with a magic veil, 
And the glory of far-off mountains, 

And the gleam of the far-away sail ! 

The Palm Beach (Fla.) Times. Jenniev Hamilton. 



All the leaves were trembling sadly 

'Twas the dying time of year; 
And the North Wind's dismal moaning 

Chilled their very hearts with fear. 

Then up spoke one leaf nobly, 

"Since we haven't long to live. 
Let us see how much of happiness 

We can contrive to give." 

"We will wear our gayest dresses ; 

And our fear we'll hide so deep 
No one can suspect we have it 

All before our final sleep." 

Then the hillsides blazed in glory, 
And the hearts of men were glad : 

And the lonely autumn season, 
Never since has seemed so sad. 

The Rutland (Vt.) Herald. Blanche Nichols Bachelder. 



We hear a lot these days, 

About the assets frozen, 

About the trees cut down, 

The cause of bad erosion ; 

About the prices low, 

About our flaming youth 

And those who with love have toyed; 

About repeal and beer, 

Kidnapers and gangsters bold, 

About the taxes high, 

And of some with wealth untold, 

Little we hear of God, 
Of reverence, of faith and prayer; 
Kindness to each other, 
Burdens of others to share; 
Little of peace, goodwill, 
And love of our fellow man; 
These would cheer, uplift, 
Give us knowledge, power to plan; 
Then this good old world of ours 
Would be under safe command. 

The Palm Beach (Fla.) Times. May M. Duffee. 

"Talespins" October 6, 1932. 


Why do we drag along the way 

With weariness and fear? 
A friend went through Gethsemane 

To give our hearts more cheer. 

Why do we linger at the grave, 

Or tremble at death's might? 
A Friend has rolled away the stone 

To give our spirits light. 

Then let us run to meet that Friend 

In some bright garden place 
Where love and laughter fill the dawn 

With sunshine like His face. 

The Palm Beach Times. Helene Claiborne. 

"Talespins" Mdxy /, 1932. 



It seems to me that, as a rule, 

I used to like to go to school. 

It wasn't school that made me sore, 

But getting washed was such a bore ! 

When mother went to scrub my neck, 

That's what I used to hate, by heck! 

She polished all around my head 
A daily task, a daily dread ! 
She soaped a rag and then began 
To clean up on her "little man." 

Her rag-wrapped finger she'd insert 

Into my ear and twist for dirt, 

And click her tongue to shame, and say 

That weeds would sprout in there some day. 

And I could hear soap bubbles pop 

As she went on to scrub and mop 

My ears and neck and all my face, 

And talk me into deep disgrace. 

The suds pan on the wash-bench stood 
A holy terror to boyhood ; 
By it the ample cake of soap, 
Adding to grief the loss of hope 
No inquisition of the rack 
Could agonize like her attack. 

She'd damp my hair and part it too 
Before this daily death was through ; 
And after hours and hours of this, 
Say, "Now you're dean enough to kiss !" 
And as Fd stand there humbled, meek, 
She'd stoop and kiss me on the cheek ; 
And as I'd start off on a spurt, 
She'd tap a spank that didn't hurt. 

It seems to me that, as a rule, 
I didn't hate to go to school. 
It wasn't scfiool that made me sore, 
But getting washed was such a bore ! 

The Palm Beach (Fla.) Times. Vernon L. Smith. 

"Talespins" September 24, 1932. 



Old glass 

Men cast aside 

Lies on the desert sands 

Until, like sun-tinged lives, it too 

Grows fair. 

The Pabn Springs (Calif.) Desert Sun. Emma Johnston. 
March 25 


The Baker family were very proud 

Of their ancestors. 

All the members belonged to whatever societies 

The martial exploits or legislative accomplishments 

Of their forefathers made them eligible. 

On all patriotic occasions their flag 

Was the first to be flung to the breeze. 

It was always hung properly 

And lowered with due dignity. 

Next to their family 

Their old house was their joy and pride. 

The main part of it had been built 

By a greatgrandfather in 1762. 

Of course that part was now the kitchen and shed. 

The front was much newer. 

Over the front door they had put the date 1762. 

They bought the figures in New York. 

The summer they decided to go out West 
To visit Uncle Sawyer and his family, 
They rented the house to an Italian artist. 
He paid them enough to partly defray 
The expenses of their modest trip to Illinois. 

The first letter they received from their tenant 

After they had arrived at Uncle Sawyer's, 

Was written on smooth gray paper. 

Neatly embossed at the top of the sheet they read 

The name of their tenant in full. 

Under it was the address : 

1762 Main Street. 

The Rutland (Vt.) Herald. Walter Hard. 



The Hebrew Mother bending 

Above the Baby's face 
Within her soul repeateth: 

"Bethlehem is His place. 
The promised Star of Jacob 

Whose kingdom ne'er shall cease; 
Thou'lt bind all tribes and nations 

In everlasting peace." 

Came Anna in, her mother: 

"The laddie's eyes are blue; 
Lineaments of David 

Would that the days were due 
Which bring the glad Messiah 

Of whom the prophets tell 
When God in love and mercy 

Remembers Israel." 

Then speaketh grand old Heli; 

He of the Chimham khan: 
"Of Judah's royal lineage, 

Behold another man! 
Stood Israel but together 

The glory that is fled 
He would renew in Zion 

The laddie's hair is red." 

The other Bethlehem mothers 

Come time and time to see 
The bonnie Son of Mary 

At home from Galilee. 
They speak of the Messiah 

In sweet exalted tone 
As if each one is seeing 

A dear Christ of her own. 

Thus all are dreaming, hoping 

One only doth rejoice: 
The gentle Mother Mary 

Who knew the heavenly Voice: 
"Thou art the promised Saviour 

Whose kingdom ne'er shall cease; 
Thy love shall bind the nations 

In everlasting PEACE." 

The Renville County Farmers Press. Flora Cameron Burr. 



Who of you have watched the ephemeral glow 

Which comes up through the black and slender trees 

As delicate as lace and makes a frieze 

Of silhouettes at dawn when perfumes blow; 

Or seen the silent rivers swiftly flow 

Down through the jungles out upon the seas, 

Yet gaining power ever as they go ? 

That's Africa, where one must pay to live 
If he would solve what tropic beauty means. 
To know the Congo with its seething scenes, 
Watching a red-gold sunrise through a sieve 
Of leaves a tracery when daylight weans 
Itself from night is to absorb, to give. 

The Rutland (Vt.) Herald. Caroline Parker Smith. 


Earth-minded we have been, earth-bent, possessed; 

Grubbing the soil, impatient for its gold ; 
And when its gleam eluded us, depressed, 

Hating our hands that! could not grasp, nor hold. 

We could not pause for beauties on the road ; 

We could not lift our eyes, watching our feet; 
We dared not help another with his load, 

Lest one, unburdened, pass us, running fleet. 

We shall emerge from this; the stronger be; 
Knowing the dross, our opened eyes shall see 
Beyond the rocky road, the uphill grade 
To beaten paths our fearless feet have made ; 
Beyond the furrowed earth, the barren plain, 
To harvest time arid ripened fields of grain ; 
Beyond the furnace's mad roar and glare 
To rivers spanned and cities rising fair ; 
Beyond the little sordid things of life, 
Beyond the selfishness, the hate and strife, 
To deeds of faith and love and high intent, 
And gallant-hearted lives in service spent ; 
We shall emerge, to look up from the sod 
And see beyond the farthest star to God ! 

The San Francisco (Calif.) Chronicle. 

November 13, 1932. Anna Blake Mezquida. 



One time I tried to hold a bird 

Within a cage, 
And learned imprisonment was not 

Its heritage. 

And though I held it captive there 

Through night and day, 
It was a songless shell whose soul 

Had flown away. 

A captor I shall meet this truth 

I contemplate, 
When Death shall try to hold me still 

And seal my fate. 

For Death will coffer me in earth 

Of ancient rust; 
While I soar free, his tomb will hold 

But day and dust. 

The Columbus (Ohio) Dispatch. Tessa Sweaty Webb. 
October 14, 1932. 



If I could die in beauty, as these trees 
That fling such golden glory to the sky, 
That shower crimson on each passerby 
And spread' a russet carpet at his knees ; 
If I could so emblazon, ere I cease, 
A sorry world with glowing tint and dye 
That would enrapture both the heart and eye, 
And give an autumn benison of peace ; 
If I could die in beauty then my years 
Of barrenness and drouth, the winds of scorn, 
The bitter tempests with their rain of tears 
Would lie forgotten, passed as yestermorn. 
For well I know that death and winter bring 
The miracle of greening buds of spring. 

The Salt Lake Tribune. Maud Chegwidden. 


Lem wasn't what his neighbors called 

An enterprisin' cuss 
And yet somehow he got along 

Without much fret or fuss. 

When crops was poor or times was hard 

And everything looked glum 
Lem didn't rare ner paw the air 

He took things as they come; 
Just seemed to have a plan of life 

That nothing much could jar. 
Inflation coaxed, depression hoaxed 

But Lem stayed right at par. 

When neighbors 'round was all het up 

An* speculation trying 
Lem wa'n't upsot nor was he caught 

In wild installment buying. 
He payed hard cash for what he bought, 

Extravagance a scornin' 
And for the things he couldn't have 

He smothered all his yearnin'. 
Just kept along! the way he knew 

A medjum course pursuin', 
He plowed and sowed, he reaped and mowed 

Like he was used ter doin'. 


The times they went from bad to worse, 

Milk prices took a tumble ; 
Those friends of Lem who'd laughed at him 

Came crawlin 5 back real humble. 
They asked of Lem to lend them cash 

Their mortgages enlargin' 
To pay installments on their cars 

Or bolster up their margin. 
The cash they got, but Lem would warn 

"Of course I'm just a plodder, 
Go keerful now, it shrinks a cow 

Ter live on mortgaged fodder." 

They kept right on a spendin' free 

But milk kept goin' down. 
The upshot of the matter is 

Lew owns nigh half the town. 
He wa'n't a bear, he wa'n't a, bull 

(Some say he's jest a skunk)-: 
It's only true his money grew 

While other folkses* shrunk. 
This ain't no grand, heroic tale 

Resent it if you want'er. 
Just goes to show, what we both know 

Lem was a real Vermonter. 

The Rutland (Vt.) Herald. Mark Whdon. 

July 23, 1932. 


Shallow the soil above the stubborn clay ; 

Twisted and gnarled the vegetables and roots 
That grew upon the land where I was born, 

But tart and full of flavor were the fruits 
That ripened from the spring to harvest time. 

Long was the road that lured my feet to stray 
And more delightful was the land I found. 

In spite of this, I cannot stay away, 
That stubborn, thriftless land still calls to me, 

Its clay my bones, my flesh its shallow loam ; 
My soul is like the fruit upon its tree, 

And when I hear it named I call it "Home." 

The Salt Lake Tribune. Edith Cherringion. 

Mwch 6, 1932. 



The stream is swift. The game fish lie 
Where currents pull and eddies whip, 
No quarter asked. And in the sky 
Birds flying face the windy rip. 
Swift in the sun the eagle flashes; 
Straight up the fall the steelhead dashes. 

To scorn the rapids and swim upstream, 
To test the heights, and challenge fate 
Better this than to sit or dream, 
Better this than to hide or wait. 
Nations are made of iron and oak; 
Steel is hardened by stroke on stroke. 

O glorious heritage of year! 
Hearts and hands of a vanished host, 
Forged through cycles of blood and tears, 
This we pledge, a shouting toast: 
In war, in peace, we hear the call ! 
America stands! It shall not fall! 

The San Francisco (Calif.) Chronicle. 

November 13, 1932* Charles Josef Carey. 


And you 

Are human, too ! 

Your long, gnarled fingers seek 

To dutch the moon's bright, shiny store 

Of gold. 

The Salt Lake Tribune. Edna May Ewert. 


Blind men are burning redwood stumps today 
And do not know that waldng giants stir 

From out the earth in tall spirals of gray ; 
Nor have they wondered, once, beyond the blur 

Of twisting smoke, how that a deep-scarred hill 
May be like calvary . . . the blind must be 

Only the ones who leave unsensed, at will, 

The first far thought that shaped an ancient tree. 

The San Jose (Calif.) News. Lela Glaze. 

"Dorothy Mac Column!' 



I thought desire was dead, but with this Spring, 

When lilacs from the fullness of their bloom 

Diffuse the damp, gold air with sweet perfume, 

And mating birds chirp noisily and sing, 

There is a sudden ease to life's old sting 

And heart and soul seem, somehow, cleansed of grief , 

Old, broken faiths give way to new belief 

In life, in love, in good ... in everything. 

Though yesterday my pain weighed heavily 

And filled me with a sense of sore despair, 

Which questioned dumbly of the gods that be, 

Why all my dreams were crushed beyond repair . . . 

Today Spring's promise stirs within my breast, 

I sense eternal life's divine unrest. 

The Salt Lake Tribune. Christie Lund. 

May 15, 1932. 


Snuggle down, mah honey; old man pine tree's sighin' 

De wind am in his grey beard, and de hoot owl's on his 

bough ; 

Rock-a-bye, mah baby; heah yo' mammy croonin' low, 
Ovah 'cross de cotton, see dat moon begin to glow. 

Bogey man's a-sneakin', 
Keepin' out o' sight, 
But honey, he cain't git yo' 
Tucked in f o' de night. 

De bullfrogs in de marshes is singin' lullabyes, 

De lightin' bugs am flashin' like little wicked eyes 

But bogey man cain't git yo' 'cause mammy's holdin' 

Nothin' 'gwine to harm you' when de moon am shinin' 


Shadows am a-creepin' 
On de cotton white, 
Yo' is safe wid mammy 
Tucked in fo' de night. 

The Tampa (Fla.) Tribune. Dorothy Rodreick. 

(C The Gulf Gleam," October 11, 1932. 



Always, the crystal tears of fickle spring 

Wake wistful longings. Still, I can endure 
It and the long, calm days that summers bring; 

And winter's silence . . . that will ache no more. 
But, oh, I cannot bear the gallant way 

That autumn wears her bleeding, two-edged hurt ; 
The courage which will not let her betray, 

By single sign, her pain; keeps her alert, 
Bearing the weight of beauty on a heart 

That long has known its loneliness and soon 
Must drop its gay pretendings, stand apart, 

Barren and ugly, prostrate in earth's swoon. 

Though she appears to know not what is lost, 
I cannot bear it ... for I ... know the cost. 

The Salt Lake Tribune. Christie Lund. 

October 2, 1932. 


Have you ever heard the calls 

Of Indian maids at night, 
As they hover above the falls, 

Poised for final flight? 

Loveliest of their race, 

Each in a birch canoe, 
With fascinating grace 

They shun, invite, pursue. 

Bravely the beautiful band 

Surrenders life to sate 
The river-god's demand 

Ordained by cruel fate. 

Lost in the water's surge, 

These victims still inspire 
Mankind with a fatal urge, 

A treacherous desire. 

The Williamsport (Pa.) Sun. May Margaret Wright. 
"Attic Salt" November 19, 1932. 


Youth, that I was, drank daringly a toast 
Naively certain in my young heart that 
Life was for blossoming. My laughing boast, 
To pluck the flower of high romance and drat 
Care's thumb. O heydey of Youth's innocence. 
Lack of time's wisdom is absurdly dear 
In that one reckons not Life's cycle-change 
With inevitable days of winter-drear. 

Age, that I am now, breathes a New Year prayer 

Of understanding supplicant to garner 

In seasonal sequence ; find realism fair ; 

Time hallowing; Spring, that wanton charmer 

Of Youth, subdued to fruit and finally rest 

In winter's peaceful end Life's benison, my friend ! 

The Sioux City (Iowa) Journal. Fay Wttloughby. 

"A Round of Rhyme/' Jan. 17, 1932. 


I can forget the spring 

And the fall 
And hollyhocks that grew 

By the waU, 
But not; this in the wood 

On leaves sere 
The bleeding, dying form 

Of a deer. 

The Williamsport (Pa.) Sun. Henri Dewitt Saylor. 

"Attic Salt" June 30, 1932. 


Upon this sea-drenched cliff, 

Alone with winds and wavering gulls, 

I stand and watch 

Your ship bear toward the darkening sun; 

And I am not myself, but one Elaine, 

Slow-studying how a road may end 

Isolde, weeping on the Cornish shore! 

The Williamsport (Pa.) Sun. Olga Marie Flohr. 

"Attic Salt," January 30, 1932. 



When dawn steps in the early hours, 
Into her nursery of flowers ; 
She lays aside her somber grays, 
Puts on a cap of brightest rays 
The while, with rosy fingers bright, 
She quickly switches on the light. 

Then gently glides from bed to bed, 
Touching each drowsy, sleepy head 
Pausing a moment in surprise 
To wipe the dewdrops from their eyes ; 
And whispers softly in their ears, 
"It's time to have your bath, my dears." 

The Stockton (Calif.) Independent E. Lisette Herrling. 
June ii, 1932* 


Upon the things of time, O Lord, 

Let me not look too long. 

Grant me the rapture and the dream, 

The witching spell of song, 

The echo of the dying storm, 

The lark's succeeding call, 

But may there be no endless stress, 

No constancy to pall. 

What if the rose should never lose 

Its luster, droop and die, 

What if the rainbow ever kept 

Its bridge across the sky, 

Or if the snowflake, jewel rare, 

Should scorn the kiss of spring, 

What? you have settled that, O Lord 

There's no stale lingering. 

The splendor of the sunlight owes 

Its charm to passing dark, 

The moon's strange tenderness unchecked 

Would miss its highest mark. 

The vine how rudely tiresome 

The vine that grimly dings, 

Peaks, torrents, constellation, stars 

Are wisely changeful things. 


So, ever give my eyes to view, 

God, your marvels vast, 

Then gently melt their outlines ere 
Too long they haunt and last. 
Daytime and nighttime to the close 
Of this, my life's wild song 

1 thank you, Lord, it is your will 
I should not gaze too long. 

The Sioux City (Iowa) Journal. Will Chamberlain. 


Fastidious little dogs upon leashes 

Are mincing their way 

Over geometrically designed pavements. 

To the accompaniment of rumbling wheels 

And siren horns, 

I go my fumbling journey 

Past windows that imprison 

Daffodils and pussy-willows. 

There along the avenue 

Uniformed nurses wheel immaculately dressed babies 

Toward a park which is redolent of gasoline fumes. 

Over littered alleys 

Other babies, colorless and pasty, 

Crawl like caterpillars just evolved from cocoons. 

And still, day after day, 

I trudge the crowded streets, 

Wishing that everything about me 

Could be magically blown into nothingness, 

Longing to feel my cheek brushed 

By a noontide of pale honeysuckle, 

To know sun upon its carpet of withered pine needles, 

Hear dogs crashing through swollen streams. 

And see a shambling darkey 

With his decrepit mule. 

Plowing the furrow of a cotton field, 

The smoke cleanly lifting from his crooked chimney ; 

Then, if the gods allow, 

The single note of a mocking-bird. 

The Spatrtanburg (S. C.) Herald. Margaret Lathrop Law. 
April 3, I932- 



The sea flows 

Up, back; up, back; 

But rivers follow a track 

That goes 

Forever down hills, over plains. 

Who knows 

The voice of the river? This Missouri came 

From geysers spouting upward like a flame 

From sulphur-crusted pools 

And water falling where the white steam cools. 

Who has heard the river talking here 

At the edge of the willows ? Who has heard it sing, 

This running, brown thing 

From the mountains of Wyoming, now so near 

The end of its course, running 

To join the broader river? 

# * * 

What did you say, long ago, Missouri, 

To the French farmers who crossed for mass by the first 

rope ferry, 

Straining against the current? What did you say 
To the captain looking down from the pilot house 
Of the old steam-ferry? Those who cross 
By a tall bridge, a new highway 
Have lost the words of your song, 

I part the brush along 

This bank and lean down close to the roots of the wil- 

Run, Missouri, run to the goal beyond the bend, 
To the river at river's end. 

The St. Louis Globe-Democrat. Florida Watts Smyth. 
June 27, 1932. 


The day Thou gavest, Lord, is nearly done; 
The sun sinks low in ever-dark'ning skies, 
The hour-glass sands for me are nearly run 
Now comes the hour of evening sacrifice. 
'Tis true Zaccheus spreads a better board, 
And Simon's home, they say, is fair to see, 
But all I havel I offer to my Lord 
Abide with me, O Lord, abide with me. 


Thou wert beside me from the very first 
Faint greyish tints of incense-breathing morn, 
When dewdrops turned to diamonds with the burst 
Of glory when my infant day was born. 
The poor accommodations I can show, 
I fear they are a mock to offer Thee; 
Perhaps to better homes 'twere best to go, 
But still I wish thou couldst abide with me. 

In manhood's vigor thou wert always near 

To lend Thy arm and counsel ev'ry hour; 

In the full splendor of the noontide year 

I conquered every problem by Thy power. 

My darkening home perhaps Thou shouldst depart, 

Unless my sacrifice is sweet to Thee 

(A very humble and a contrite heart) 

In which case then, O Lord, abide with me. 

With Thee at hand I calmly view the end 
Of day in darkness deep and somber bed, 
Unless there is some far more worthy friend 
With whom my Lord would rather lay His head? 
While drifts life's tranquil tide away, 
I long to hear my Master say to me : 
"The evening is the best part of the day ; 
Sleep, thou, in peace, while I abide with thee." 

The Tampa (Flo.) Tribune. Orvule L. Shobe, 

"The Gulf Gleam," July 24, 


When first we met you seemed so free 

You were a butterfly to me, 

Your fairy lightness thrilled me through, 

Your dress assumed a golden hue 

The twinkles of your merry eyes 

All danced about like butterflies. 

I named you right. At this sad hour 
I've learned you flit from flow'r to flow'r ; 
You take your honey where you find it 
And I am fool enough to mind it. 

The Tampa (Fla.) Tribune. Elizabeth Charles Welborn. 
f( The Gulf Gleam'/ April 13, 1932. 



I have forgotten the earth, 
And my soul is questing 
The bright illimitable reaches 
Beyond the ultimate stars. 

I have forsaken the earth, 

And my soul is resting 

In the infinite quiet that teaches 

Peace beyond the peace of the stars. 

The Tampa (Fla.) Tribune. Mary E. Watkins. 

"The Gulf Gleam'' August 2, 1932. 


We have furled the sails of our little ketch ; 

She is moored in a calm lagoon; 
And her slim black spars on the sky bowl etch 

Their image under the moon. 

The evening tradewind touch, aloft, 

The breath of the breeze on deck, 
Is never as gentle and warm and soft 

As your arms around my neck. 

The seagull in indolent, careless flight, 

The dolphin in diving, no more 
Entrancingly graceful than you tonight 

As you swim at my side to the shore. 

From a pattern fantastic of tamarind leaves 
Where the light and shadows combine, 

On the ghost-white sand the moon-man weaves 
An intricate black design. 

And the amorous moon and thq tamarind 

Lay lightly across your face 
Here under the tree, lovely Rosalind, 

A provocative veil of lace. 

Oh, is it illusive witchery 

Of the moon, and the south sea wind, 
And surf on, a coral reef, or are we 

In Paradise, Rosalind? 

The Tampa (Fla.) Tribune. Philip E. Barney, 

"The Gulf Gleam," July 7, 1932. 



My heart was a silent violin, 
Its high strings rent in twain, 

And the only music I could make 
Was a sound of selfish pain. 

But the Master Virtuoso 

Gently took the battered thing, 

And played a lovely melody 
Upon a single string. 

The Tampa (Fla.) Tribune. Ruth Payne Bowford. 

"The Gulf Gleam' 9 March 5, 1932. 


I'm weary of the cities with their rustling human strife; 
I'm longing for a schooner and a stretch of ocean life. 
I want to see the rolling clouds out there among the stars, 
With the silver of the moonbeams reflected on the spars. 

And I'm longing for the days, if they ever will come back, 
When standing in a wheel-pit while she made another tack. 
And to listen to the plash of the wild seas overside ; 
With the kicking of the wheel when she butts a running 

I'd like to be awakened when I'm sleeping in my clothes ; 
To get on deck to reef and haul when a Nor-wester blows. 
To feel the rain a' rapping on my oilskins in the squalls, 
With my sou- wester shedding every drop of it that falls. 

With the black skies out to West'ard fortelling coming 


And the feet feel the foot-ropes up aloft a' furling sails. 
With the bawling of the mates and the whining of the 

When the wind fills the canvas and a strain is on the 


Oh, I'm weary of the city with all its cares and strains ; 
I long to leave its intrigues for the seas' wide lonely lanes ; 
To sign up with some buckos who are sun-burnt, brown 

and gray; 
I'd do my share of growling when the ship got under way. 

The Wasp-News Letter. William Anderson. 

May 21, 1932. 



Ah, in my life I have loved them 
Three loves that have come to me . . . 
Moonlight, and deep red roses 
Deep red, dew-wet roses 
And the ever-changing sea. 

Exquisite, all, in their beauty 
To each alone have I thrilled . . . 
But, oh, with my three loves together 
Three beautiful loves together 
The beat of my heart is stilled. 

So, as in life I have loved them, 
When at the end, I am dead . . . 
Let there be sea, and the moonlight 
The silver mist of the moonlight 
And roses, deep dark red. 

The Tampa (Fla.) Tribune. Eva Byron. 

"The Gulf Gleam," May 10, 1932. 


The winds, swaying yellow blossoms, 

By chance in a market stall, 
Bring dreams of forgotten pastures, 

Sweet with the frosts of- fall. 

I stand in enchanted twilights, 
There's singing in every breeze, 

With ripples of forest laughter 
Floating in city trees. 

The whispering oaks tell secrets ; 

Half-trusting, I doubt forsooth, 
When I hear in soft, low rustlings 

Tales of old love and youth. 

And here, are great songs and visions 

That Gods only hear and see, 
In some valley like the Jordan 

Near a lake, called Galilee. 

The Williamsport (Pa.) Sun. Clarence L. Peaslee. 

"Attic Salt'' April 23, 1932. 



Here where the fettered limbs are loose, 
Here where the moon looks down 

Convicts, out on a brief parole, 
Free from the prisoned town. 

Here where the air is fresh and fair, 

Here where the soul may soar, 
Far from the woe of the workday world, 

Far from the city's roar. 

Here where I may feel and know 

All that I longed to be- 
Here where I may speak to God, 

And God may speak to me. 

The Tampa (Fla.) Tribune. E. D. Lambright. 

"The Gulf Gleam," Feb. 3, 1932. 


Seeing into centuries past, 
Weathered by storm and stress 
The remnant of the old fort stands, 
Fearing forgetfulness. 

Chimneys stark ; hearthstones bare ; 
Fallen grandeur of the high hearted 
Like furled flags at half mast, 
Mourning the departed. 

Grand River mourns the stealthy dip 
Of bygone Indian paddles ; 
Windswept lanes and walls re-echo 
Creaking boots and saddles. 

Gone to bed in God's lone Acre, 
On the sheltered side of the Post, 
Rows of dust bereft of a lamp, 
Waiting the mighty Host. 


Shades pass in review: explorers, 
Trappers, outlaws, hardy pioneers, 
Indians, squatters, soldiers brave 
Protecting the pioneers. 

The Tulsa (Okla.) World. Cora Case Porter. 



I am here, dear Lord, 

A woman, by Thy grace; 
You put me here to carry on, 

As betterment for Thy race; 
But much of life I've wasted ; 

This day was lost, employed 
For pleasure to people a vacuum, 

For play to purpose a void. 

Shall I be judged incompetent? 

As of the idle mass; 
Or will You say, "I made her, 
Let the woman pass." 

The Wasp-News Letter. Jean Steele Marlatt. 

"The Poets' Corner" April 16, 1932. 


A necklace of coins once rose and fell 
On a woman's warm white throat 

As she danced to the throb of Spanish guitars 
And laughter's wildest note. 


The necklace flashed as she whirled and swayed 

With tantalizing grace. 
Flashed mockery and flouted hopes 

In a jealous lover's face, 
For his was not the gift of coins, 

And his smoldering anger flamed 
As with one quick thrust his dagger found 

The heart another claimed. 


Snatching the hated, baneful coins 

He escaped from the town that night 
On a vessel bound for foreign shores, 

A land of wealth and might 
Where frenzied men were finding gold, 

And asked no one his name, 
Where all had equal liberty, 

And chances were the same. 



Once there, he wandered restlessly 

With memories that seared, 
Consumed by anguish and remorse, 

And as the end he neared 
But three were left of all the coins 

And those, for food and rest, 
He offered to a miner 

Who gave him of his best 


You asked for a tale of early days 

In the palm, of my hand I hold 
Three Spanish silver coins, worn smooth, 

Three bangles, dull and old. 
Gone is the man consumed by his crime, 

Gone is the miner, too, 
(The miner, my father, who sheltered him) 

And these coins which caused such rue. 

The Wasp-News Letter Mabel C. Fuller. 


They kept their tryst so gallantly 
On fading battle-fields, 
They knew a courage born of pain, 
A strength that never yields, 
And as their broken ranks come by, 
We raise our prayers again 
That we may find the shining Grail 
That led the marching men. 

That we may raise the flag as high 
As those whose hearts were proud 
When they went out to fight for truth 
Don't let us walk, low-bowed, 
Ashamed because we have not kept 
The pledge which brave hearts made. 
Help us to conquer wrongs, dear God, 
And keep us unafraid! 

The Williamsport (Pa.) Sun. Helen Welshimer. 

May 28, 1932. 



A garden is a lovesome thing, Got wot? 

Rose plot, 

Fringed pool, 

Ferned grot, 

The veriest school of peace; and yet the 

fool contends that God is not 
Not God ! In Gardens ! when the eve is cool ? 
Nay, but I have a sign! 
'Tis very sure God walks in mine. 

The Wasp-News Letter. Thomas Edward Brown. 

"The Poets' Corner" July 2, 1932. 


"Too old," they told him, 

At the factory wicket 
His age was forty 

And they gave him a ticket. 

It mattered nothing 

That his eyes were still steady, 

His step elastic 

And his hand deft and ready. 

His country thinks, 

When the guns start to rattle, 

He's then not too old 
To be shot down in battle. 

He's then a hero ! 

None could strike any bolder ! 
But when he comes back 

He's too old for a job-holder. 

Why do we throw him 

In the dire pit of hell 
And grind up our youth 

To make more than we sell? 

A day is coming 

He cannot steal nor rob 
His might will make right 

And he'll take back his job. 

The Williamsport (Pa.) Sun. Clarence L. Peaslee. 

"Attic Salt' 9 March 26, 1932. 



Along a highway I once strolled, 
And met him quite on equal terms ; 

We chatted of his wealth of gold 
His fishing rod and can of worms 1 

He, tattered, barefoot, tousled-hair, 
Walked proud as Eastern potentate; 

He whistled to the fishes' lair, 
While I strolled solemn and sedate. 

His whistling had no artist's range, 
He was no Raphael's cherubim; 

Yet any artist would exchange, 
To have the joy of Whistling Jim I 

Infectious was his whistled joy, 
Alluring was his sparkling eye; 

I longed to whistle like that boy, 
And know the sunshine of his sky. 

Oh, would that life could always hold 
Us free from worries which annoy; 

That to our hearts we could enfold 
The carefree peace of a whistling boy I 

The New Canaan Advertiser. 


Herman A. Heydt. 


Mark that old man in the poorhouse yard ; 

That old, old man, with the snow-white hair. 

Three fine sons in the world has he ; 

Three happy sons, all rich and free; 

Each son noted for "charity" 

With check-book, and law-book, and book-of-prayer. 

One fine son is a business man, 
Cunning and shrewd in his plans for gold ; 
Scheming and playing for power and fame; 
Proud and serene in his own good name; 
Contented and pleased with his selfish game , . . 
Forgetting his father, gray and old. 

Another fine son is a worthy judge; 
Secretly tickled with vanity ; 
Condemning judiciously things unclean, 
Strutting about with dignified mien 
A living lie, both sharp and keen, 
Plotting in law and piety. 

The third fine son is a man of God, 

Singing and praising the Bible plan; 

Shouting his sermons from pulpit and stand, 

A wonderful, son, so holy and grand! 

Teaching and preaching throughout the land . . . 

With never a thought for the poorhouse man ! 

What would you give for these three fine sons? 
Would you be proud in their worldly fame? 
Riches and power and place have they, 
Noble and holy from day to day, 
Sweet and religious in every way 
Cloaked with the glory of God's good name! 

Dear Father in Heaven, have YOU many sons 

Like the sons of this father with snow-white hair? 

For three fine sons in the world has, he, 

As three fine sons as ever could be 

Rotten and foul in hypocrisy ... 

With check-book, and law-book, and book-of-prayer. 

The Wasp-News Letter. William B. Hegeman. 

"The Poets' Corner/' February 20, 1932. 



Back to the war-torn, shale-strewn land, 
Back to the shell hole pitted town, 
Back to the blood-soaked, smoking earth, 
Moved through the mists on every hand 
Creaking carts, the pilgrims weighted down. 
Beneath their broken idols, rare with worth. 

Back through the glow of the morning dawn 
Of the rising sun^that shown again 
Upon the shell-lined, weeping way, 
Came hordes of pilgrim peasants on 
To search for earthen grails of men 
Dreg-stained by the gall of yesterday. 

Back to the heap of shattered stone 
Of an humble hut by the village street, 
To fill the trench in the broken mall, 
To sow and reap where long have grown 
The tares of war uncut, that greet 
His ghastly coming like a pall 

Perchance awaiting his return 
A fragrant cot from the mountain fir, 
Hewn for him by a Friendly hand, 
A shrine of Hope, where he may burn 
An incense sweeter than the myrrh 
Borne to him from a foreign land 
By the Light of the Morning Star. 

The Wichita (Kans.) Eagle. Henry Coffin Fellow. 

October 28, 1932. 


You on your hilltop, 

And I on mine; 

Like tall cathedral spires, 

We stand alone, 

Yet never lonely; 

Since we are on the hilltop 

Where we see 

The little lights of love 

Lit endlessly. 

The Wasp-News Letter. Eve Brasier* 

"The Poets' Corner" February 27, 1932. 



The desert holds within its heart one note 

Exultant, full, and vibrant as a bell ; 

The faintest echo ringing in a shell 

That seems upon the muted air to float ; 

Where its orchestral tone the winds will quote 

In tender melodies of wood and dell, 

Of laughter hidden in a cavern well, 

Theme voicing theme from a triumphant throat. 

In kind responsive to each seeker's dream 

B6 it with sorrow or with pleasure spent, 

Where chance alone may choose to cast its role; 

Elusive, mocking it will ever seem 

Filled with bright promise or with strange portent, 

Yielding to each the measure of his soul. 

The Wasp-News Letter. Mabel W. Phillips. 

"The Poets' Corner'' May 21, 


Those maddening strains 

Float out like wraiths to me 

And flood my; soul 

With bitter unshed tears ; 

They speak of hopes long dead, 

Ships lost at sea, 

And shattered dreams 

Along the lonely years. 

Defeats and sad regrets 

Those wild notes bring, 

Too poignant for 

My weary heart to bear; 

I seem adrift 

A bird with broken wing, 

And silently 

I seek repose in prayer. 

The Williamsport (Pa.) Sun. Helen McMahan. 

"Attic Salt," August 30, 1932. 



Gathered from out the far zones of the earth, 
Gathered from farms that were held of no worth 
"Mad-House," they called it the Blackstone Hotel, 
Scenes of transactions that mean heaven or hell: 
Voices uniting become a deep roar, 
Cataract, truly, could sound little more 
Day-long, night through, unceasingly on 
Still the crowds weave, and a year has now gone. 

Larger and wilder the wells gush and come, 
More eager-hearted the Blackstone maelstrom 
Flows in a tide past description or pen, 
Widening and thickening its debris of men 
Coming, still coming, for their tilt at the fray, 
Frenzied and game their last dollar to play. 

The Tyler (Tex.) Journal. M. Rose Akin. 

May 1 


If I should ever scoff at spring's awakening 
Or calmly pass a budding hawthorn tree, 
If muted violins no more enthrall me 
And moonlight holds no dreams of ecstasy, 
If scent of lilac blooms no longer brings me 
A poignant memory of our early love, 
If no responsive music floods my being, 
At sound of bobolink or cooing dove, 
If sweetly sighing west winds cannot move me 
And I have failed to keep my dreams ahead; 
Then tho I breathe and walk and work as ever, 
The soul that flamed within me shall be dead. 

The Wtiliamsport (Pa.) Sun. Helen McMahan. 

"Attic Salt," March 26, 



Dark and Rak 

Leaves are clinging dead; 

I call you, 
Call you as we said. 

Dark and Rain 

And dead leaves falling ; 

I, who call, 
Hear only calling 

Dark Rain Leaves 
Nothing more except 

My own voice, 
In a vow half-kept. 

The Williainsport (Pa.) Sun. Mary Peaslee Root. 

"Attic Salt," May 28, 1932. 


In Memory of Franklyn Pierre Davis. 

F From out the far land of Eternity, 

R Resistless, though unseen, a messenger 

A Across the Heavens came on sable wings. 

N Now terror seized on those who heard him say, 

K "Know this, O man, 'tis your fixed destiny; 

L Live well each day of your allotted span, 

Y You then will welcome this edict so grave, 

N Now seeming but an arbitrary fact/ 1 

P Perchance the messenger but came to say, 

/ "I know your work on earth seems incomplete, 

E Ere long, we'll need you in a larger sphere; 

R Remember that this earth-life is a school, 

R Rewards await the faithful one elsewhere. 

R Erect no monuments of fame on earth." 

D Departing, then, the messenger had smiled, 

A And sable wings gave place to glistening white ; 

V Valhalla opened wide her welcoming gates, 

/ Investing an heroic son of Earth 

S Sabaoth officer to God the King. 

The Williamsport (Pa.) Sun. Alice Sutton McGeorge. 
"Attic Salt." 


Just A Little Love Song 

Jranklyn Pierre Davis Music by Helen McMahan 

1. It is grow. ing dark and si - lent, 'tis the 

2. I will wan-der far in .dream -land where the 
3.Yes,rtt sing a song of love dear, just a 

clos - ing of the day So Til. 

fair - ies have their home__ Where the 
song of love for you,- For the 

sing a lit - tie love song T - just to 
cu - pids rest when wear * y, * and the 
ro - ses in your cheeks dear, and your 


drive the gloom a - _ 
mys * tic love gods roam 
eyes of heav- en's t ""~ 

Yes I'll sing a 

There I'll meet a. 

For the witchery 

fir r 

it's tust fbr 

lit - tie love song, 
lit * tie fair - y, 
of your smile dear, 

sweet-heart it's j,ust 
whose heart beats ev * er 
and the love light in your 

f nr r 

Have kin * 

I've : not for got - 
you, have a dou - 
idled in this heart of 


ten, /5d that my love IT trueT_. 

Me, That fair.- v .will be you 

The flame ihat nev* er dies 

Written by Frankiyn Pierre Davis in 1918. Set to music with 
piano parts, and violin obligate, by Helen McMahan in 1982. 
Owing to lack of space, the voice score alone is reproduced. 


I express my appreciation and obligation to the Editors 
and Publishers of the following newspapers for material 
used in this book : 

The Birmingham Age-Herald, Birmingham Alabama. 

The Birmingham Post, Birmingham, Alabama. 

The Boston Herald, Boston, Massachusetts. 

The Boston Post, Boston, Massachusetts. 

The Boston Transcript, Boston, Massachusetts. 

The Bracken County News, Brooksville, Kentucky. 

The Brattleboro Reformer, Brattleboro, Vermont. 

The Buffalo Courier-Express, Buffalo, New York. 

The Catholic Transcript, Hartford, Connecticut. 

The Catholic Tribune, Cedar Rapids, Iowa. 

The Cedar Rapids Gazette, Cedar Rapids, Iowa. 

The Charleston Post, Charleston, South Carolina. 

The Chicago Tribune, Chicago, Illinois. 

The Christian Science Monitor, Boston, Massachusetts. 

The Cincinnati Times-Star, Cincinnati, Ohio. 

The Columbus Citizen, Columbus, Ohio. 

The Columbus Dispatch, Columbus, Ohio. 

The Cumberland News, Cumberland, Maryland. 

The Dallas Morning News, Dallas, Texas. 

The Dallas Journal, Dallas, Texas. 

The Detroit News, Detroit, Michigan. 

The Enid Morning News, Enid, Oklahoma. 

The Fort Payne Journal, Fort Payne, Alabama. 

The Franklin Journal-Transcript, Franklin, New 


The Gary Post-Tribune, Gary, Indiana. 
The Hamilton Journal, Hamilton, Ohio. 
The Harbor Springs Graphic, Harbor Springs, Mich. 
The Hartford Courant, Hartford, Connecticut. 
The Hartford Times, Hartford, Connecticut. 
The Honolulu Star-Bulletin, Honolulu, Hawaii. 
The Indianapolis Star, Indianapolis, Indiana. 
The Kansas City Star, Kansas City, Mo. 
The La Grange Standard, La Grange, Indiana. 
The Lake Worth Herald, Lake Worth, Florida. 
The Los Angeles Saturday Night, Los Angeles, 



The Middleton Herald, Middleton, New York. 

The Mill Valley Record, Mill Valley, California. 

The Montclair Tfmes, Montclair, New Jersey. 

The Muskogee Phoenix, Muskogee, Oklahoma. 

The Newark News, Newark, New Jersey. 

The Nevada State Journal, Reno, Nevada. 

The Newcastle News-Republican, Newcastle, Indiana. 

The New Canaan Advertiser, New Canaan, Conn. 

The New York American, New York, New York. 

The New York Journal, New York, New York. 

The New York Sun, New York, New York. 

The New York Times, New York, New York. 

The Ontario Herald, Ontario, California. 

The Oakland Tribune, Oakland, California. 

The Oakland Mountain-Democrat, Oakland, Maryland. 

The Omaha World Herald, Omaha, Nebraska. 

The Palm Beach Times, Palm Beach, Florida. 

The Palm Springs Desert-Sun, Palm Springs, California. 

The Pasadena Post, Pasadena, California. 

The Paterson Call, Paterson, New Jersey. 

The Philadelphia Bulletin, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. 

The Philadelphia Inquirer, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. 

The Piedmonter, Piedmont, California. 

The Pine Cone, Carmel-by-the-Sea, California. 

The Ponton Lakes Bulletin, Ponton Lakes, New Jersey. 

The Renville County Farmers Press, Mohall, North 


The Rutland Herald, Rutland, Vermont. 
The Salt Lake Tribune, Salt Lake City, Utah. 
The San Francisco Chronicle, San Francisco, California. 
The San Jose News, San Jose, California. 
The Sioux City Journal, Sioux City, Iowa. 
The Spartanburg Herald, Spartanburg, South Carolina. 
The St. Louis Globe-Democrat, St. Louis, Missouri. 
The Stockton Independent, Stockton, California. 
The Tampa Tribune, Tampa, Florida. 
The Tulsa World, Tulsa, Oklahoma. 
The Tyler Journal, Tyler, Texas. 
The Wasp-News Letter, San Francisco, California. 
The Wichita Eagle, Wichita, Kansas. 
The Williamsport Sun, Williamsport, Pennsylvania. 




AFTER TOMORROW, Eugenia T. Finn 74 

AFTER THE STORM, Stella Flowers Hastings 81 

AGE-LIMIT, Clarence L. Peaslee 120 

AGIOCHOOK, Claribel Weeks Avery 48 

ALLEY TOM, Ruby Pearl Patterson 64 

ANGELS' PRAYERS, Mildred Schanck 35 

'ANSWER, Helen Maring 75 

APRIL, Paul Leland McConomy 87 

ARMISTICE DAY, Millard S. Burns 8 

"As A FLOWER/' Rebecca Helman 88 

ATHEIST'S ADMISSION, Margaret Kowalewski 53 

AUTUMN, John Allison Haining 49 

A BABY DIED, Helen Parkinson Ned 47 

A GARDEN, Thomas Edward Brown 120 

A GROWING N/EED, Schuyler C. Spero 64 

A PATH, Adele D'Orsay 70 

A PLEA, Mary E. Schanck 34 

A PLEDGE, Charles Josef Carey 106 


AN ODE TO MODERNITY, Lexie Jean Lowman 36 


mund 13 

AND THEY CALL IT SPORT, Henri De Witt Saylor. 109 

BABY LINDBERGH, Anthony Klinkner 10 



CALL OF THE WEST, John Allison Haining 46 

CATTLE TRAILS, Cora Case Porter 68 

CHICORY, Katharine Washburn Harding 6 

CHILD AND GARDEN, Maud Chegwidden 94 

CHILDREN AND FLOWERS, Myrtle H. McCormack. . 48 

CHORALE, Elinor Lennen 42 

CIRCUS DAY, Bertha Raffetto 69 

CITY TWILIGHT, Adelaide Love 75 

CLEARING, Lela Close 106 



COAST BIRDS'' VESPERS, Benjamin Musser 89 



COURT OF DREAMS, Mary Owen Lewis 92 

CRISIS, Herman Hagedorn 54 

DANDELION FIELDS, Gertrude Grymes Smith 64 

DAZZLED, Lucia Trent 15 

DEAR LITTLE NUN, Marie Tello Philhps 79 

DEFENSE FOR MOTHER WORLD, Jay G. Sigmund. . . 14 

DEPARTURE, Olga Marie Flohr 109 

DESERT Music, Mabel W. Phillips 124 

DESIRE, Christie Lund 107 

DID You? Lucia C. Brown 56 


Rev. William Wood 10 

DISTANCE, Jenniev Hamilton 97 

ENIGMATICAL, Anne M. Robbins 72 

EPHEMERAL, Lucile Hargrove Reynolds 77 

EROTIC, Eve Brazier 81 

EVENING PRAYER, 5*. W. Young 90 

EVENING REVERIE, Hilda Marie Green 35 

EVENTIDE, Orville L. Shobe 112 

EVERLASTING PEACE, Flora Cameron Burr 101 

FAITH, Virginia Lee Ward 24 

FATHER TO His SON, William Allen Ward 37 

FETTERED APRIL, Margaret Lathrop Law Ill 

FOR A FLOWER GIFT, Louis J. Harrington 37 

FORT GIBSON, Cora Case Porter 117 

FROM A GILDED TOWER, Ellen M, Carroll 79 

FUTILITY, Dell H. Pate 28 

GEORGE WASHINGTON, Mabel Posegate 27 

GOD'S GRACE, Nellie Sprague Mullikin 29 

GOLD LEAD, Harriet Mills McKay 71 

GOSSIPING WITH GOD, Lou Mallory Luke 23 

GRANDMOTHERS, L. F. Mattox 29 

GRIEF, Calvin Dill Wilson 9 

GYPSY LOVE, Bertha Raffetto 68 



HAVE I BEEN PLEASURE MAD? Jean Steel Marlatt.118 

HAWAIIAN DAYS, Charlotte Baldwin 53 

HER VISION WATCHED Us, Robert Schreffler 33 

HILLTOPS, Eve Brasier 123 


Woodward 56 

HOLY WEEK, Phoebe A. Naylor 13 

HOME, Edith Cherrington 105 

HUMAN NEED, Charles A. Heath 52 

HUMORESQUE, Helen McMahan 124 

INDEPENDENCE DAY, Sara Roberta Getty 40 

INHERITANCE, Grace Hackel Baker 75 

INLAND FOGS, Helen Miller Lehman 52 

INVITATION, Arthur Guiterman 76 

IN A WEARY MOMENT, Ina Draper DeFoe 61 

IN MILL VALLEY, Joan Woodward 67 

Is THIS A TIME FOR POETRY? Mary Pollard Tynes. 22 

JUNE DUSK, Clifford Gessler 17 

JUST A LITTLE LOVE SONG, Franklyn P. Davis 127 

JUST AN ADDRESS, Walter Hard 100 

JUST DON'T, Isabel Fiske Conant 72 

LEAFLESS TREE, Edna May Ewert 106 

LEM'S PLAN, Mark Whalon 104 

LET ME NOT LOOK Too LONG, Will Chamberlain. .110 

LIFE is AN INN, B. Y. Williams 28 

LIFE is LIKE THAT, B. Jackson 72 

LITTLE HOUSE THAT FOUND ME, Charles Bollard. 15 

LINES TO K. E., Helen McMahan 125 

LONELY, R. Linn Crockett 41 

LONGFELLOW, Helen Janet Miller 44 

MARCH ON ! Clara Edmunds Hemingway 50 

MARCH WINDS, Tessa Sweazy Webb 45 


MEDITATION, Mildred Maralyn Mercer '. 34 

MEMORIAL DAY, Dorothy Tyrrel 82 

MEN OF KOREA, Annie M. Johnston 84 

MIDNIGHT MOTHS, James Neill Northe 18 



MOTHER NATURE, Thressa M. DeFosset 33 

MY FORTUNE, F. /. Earl 38 

MY HEAVEN, Dorothy Howells Walker 41 

NEW ENGLAND SPRING, Isabel Fiske Conant 8 

OCTOBER, Anna Maria Wirth 91 

OLD TREES, Belle Van Natta 65 

ON AWAKENING, Florence Van Fleet Lyman 49 

ONE MORE TIME, M Morse 57 

PEACE, Mary E. Watkins 114 

PINE TREE, Benjamin Musser 16 

PLEASURE, John Harsen Rhoades 95 

QUATRAIN, Ruby Robinson Wise 79 

QUERY, Maude de Verse Newton 26 

"REALITY/' Hazel Reese Collins 80 

REFUGEE'S RETURN, Henry Coffin Fellow 123 

REMEMBRANCE, Margaret . Bruner 73 

RETURN, Eleanor M. Denny 60 

RETURN, Elisabeth Neivman 58 

REVOLT, Caroline Parker Smith 57 

REWARD, Delia Vaughn 84 

RIVERS FOLLOW A TRACK, Florida Watts Smyth. .112 

ROBINS, Margo 67 

ROSALIND, Philip E. Barney 114 

RUBY-THROAT DINES, Addie M. Proctor 70 

SALUTATIONS, Fay Willoughby 109 

SCHOOL DAY MORN, Vernon L. Smith 99 

SEA POVERTY, William Anderson 115 

SECOND GLEANING, Eugenia T. Finn 63 

SEEKERS, Rosa Zagnoni Marinoni 22 

SHADOWS, Mildred Schanck 38 

SILVER SAILS, Grace Conner Harris 28 

SIMPLE LUSTER, Lucia Trent 71 

SLAVE DRIVER, William Allen Ward 30 


Lynch Rockett 78 

SNOW VISITOR, Alice E. Bradley 77 

SOLDIERS ! Helen Welshimer 119 



SONG AT HARVEST, Anne M. Robinson 89 

SONG FOR DEVON., Barbara Young 76 

SONG FOR ESTELLE, Cecelia Maloney 40 

SONNET, Maud Chegwidden 104 

SONNET, Caroline Parker Smith 102 

SPIRIT OF THE NIGHT, I sola M. O haver 12 

SPRING, Jtfinnie Roberts Dreesen 40 

SPRING AGAIN, Schuyler C. Spero 88 

SPRING SNOW, Louise F. Elmendorf 47 

SPRING VERSUS CLEANING, Vera Keevers Smith. . . 14 

SUN COLORED, Emma Johnston 100 

SUNSET ON THE LAKE, Ostnan C. Hooper 36 

TAPESTRIES, Helen Maring 26 

TEA TIME, Gene Boardntan Hoover 61 

THE ANSWER, Mary Peaslee Root 126 

THE AVIATRIX, Mrs, Susan A. Garrison 43 

THE BABY, Dorothy Kissling 21 

THE BUILDER, John Richard M or eland 66 

THE BUTTERFLY, Elizabeth Charles Welborn. . . .113 

THE CAPTIVE, Tessa Sweasy Webb 103 


Wright 108 


THE COMMON DAY, Mary Anderson 62 

THE COUNTRY DOCTOR, Ruth Winslow Gordon. . 7 

THE COST, Christie Lund 108 

THE CURE, May H. Duifee 98 

THE DEBRIS OF DREAMS, Etna Forsell Pawson. . . 82 

THE FINAL RECKONING, Mary Pollard Tynes 6 

THE FLOWERING SUN, J. Horace Losh. . , 66 

THE FORGOTTEN MAN, Henry Polk Loivenstein . . 63 
THE FRAGRANCE OF FLOWERS, Annice Calland. ... 95 

THE FRIEND, Helene Claiborne 98 

THE FRIENDLY TREES, Arthur Goodenough 12 

THE GOLD DREDGER, Jennie Locke Hyzelquist. . . 80 
THE NATION'S CHILD, Margaret E. Bruner 60 



THE PEDDLER, Kate K. Church 93 

THE PIONEER, Kate K. Church 92 

THE PLAINSMAN'S PRAYER, Will Chamberlain... 87 

noni 24 

THE RIVETERS, Virginia Lawson 50 

THE ROSEWOOD MELODEON, Rachel Mack Wilson. 19 

THE ROBIN'S SONG, Sarah R. Stansberry 74 

THE RUNAWAY, Emma Johnston 91 

THE SAMPLER, Ethel Titus Worthen 34 

THE SILENT VIOLIN, Ruth Payne Bomford 115 

THE SLENDER KEY OF FAITH, Ina Draper DeFoe . 62 

THE SPANISH COINS, Mabel C. Fuller 118 

THE SUMMER CARAVAN, Nell Griffith Wilson.. 86 


THE WHISTLING BOY, Herman A. Heydt 121 

THE WISE MAN, Grenville Kleiser 92 

THE WORLD is BROKE, John Culleton 30 

THINGS, Elaine Bassett 42 

THERE is No Loss, Ruby MacLeod Taylor 69 

THERE is ROMANCE, Florence Ralston Wefum. . 51 


THREE FINE SONS, William B. Hageman : 122 

THREE LOVES, Eva Byron 116 

TIME'S PRICELESS GIFTS, Olga Wahlstein Leino.* 85 

To A PALM, Imelda Barbara Dillon 96 

To HER PICTURE, Erene Angleman 73 

To THE WINNER, Elaine Bassett 43 

To You NEXT DOOR, Marion Short 51 

TRAILS, George McKMay 59 

TROPIC SEA, Charlotte Baldwin 58 

TUCKED IN FO' DE NIGHT, Dorothy Rodreick 107 

TUMULT, Cecil Rives Dudley 46 

Two HUNTERS, Lucie Gill Price 39 

Two VISIONS, Virginia Eaton 39 

VAHAIXA SABAOTH, Alice McGeorge 126 

VENETIAN SUNSET, Bertram Day 44 



VESTMENTS, Charles Bancroft 90 

VIEWPOINT, Amy Bower 82 

VILLANELLE, Lowe W. Wren 83 

VISION, Clarence L. Peaslee 116 

VISTA, Dorothy Cruikshank 70 

WEEDS, Dorothy Randolph Byard 7 

WEEK END, E. D. Lambright 117 

WELL OF SILENCE, Mary Owen Lewis 32 

WE SHALL EMERGE, Anna Blake Mezquida 102 

WHEN BEAUTY CAME, B. Y. Williams 31 

WHENE'ER AT NIGHT I GAZE, Herman A. Heydt. . 25 

WHEN DAWN ARRIVES, . Lisette Herrling 110 


Getty 5 

WHO ARE THE BLIND? Terry B. Dinkel 32 

WHY HE STOOD IT,W. N. Hirst 31 


Bachelder 97 

WINGED TREE, Ralph Cheyney 58 

rence 9 

WINTER NIGHT, William Sheppard Sparks 85 

WINTER WOODS, Louise Crenshaw Ray. 11 

YUAN-A-ME, George Scott Gleason 59